What right had that man to treat her as his plaything? Her pride and all
her womanly instincts rose up in rebellion. Her nerves had been so
shaken that she sobbed behind her veil all the way to her destination.
Paris, when she reached it, offered her almost nothing that could comfort
or amuse her. That city is always empty and dull in August, more so than
at any other season. Even the poor occupation of teaching her little
class of music pupils had been taken away by the holidays. Her sole
resource was in Modeste's society. Modeste--who, by the way, had never
been ill, and who suffered from nothing but old age--was delighted to
receive her dear young lady in her little room far up under the roof,
where, though quite infirm, she lived comfortably, on her savings.
Jacqueline, sitting beside her as she sewed, was soothed by her old
nursery tales, or by anecdotes of former days. Her own relatives were
often the old woman's theme. She knew the history of Jacqueline's family
from beginning to end; but, wherever her story began, it invariably wound
up with:

"If only your poor papa had not made away with all your money!"

And Jacqueline always answered:

"He was quite at liberty to do what he pleased with what belonged to
him."

"Belonged to him! Yes, but what belonged to you? And how does it happen
that your stepmother seems so well off? Why doesn't some family council
interfere? My little pet, to think of your having to work for your
living. It's enough to kill me!"