“I mean that you will only know so much of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s past life as she may choose to tell you,” continued the obdurate old lady. “You heard Madame Vantrasson’s ignoble allegations. It has been said that she was the mistress, not the daughter, of the Count de Chalusse. Who knows what vile accusations you may be forced to meet? And what is your refuge, if doubts should ever assail you? Mademoiselle Marguerite’s word! Will this be sufficient? It is now, perhaps; but will it suffice in years to come? I would have my son’s wife above suspicion; and she--why, there is not a single episode in her life that does not expose her to the most atrocious calumny.” “What does calumny matter? it will never shake my faith in her. The misfortunes which you reproach Marguerite for sanctify her in my eyes.” “Pascal!” “What! Am I to scorn her because she has been unfortunate? Am I to regard her birth as a crime? Am I to despise her because her MOTHER is a despicable woman? No--God be praised! the day when illegitimate children, the innocent victims of their mother’s faults, were branded as outcasts, is past.” But Madame Ferailleur’s prejudices were too deeply rooted to be shaken by these arguments. “I won’t discuss this question, my son,” she interrupted, “but take care. By declaring children irresponsible for their mother’s faults, you will break the strongest tie that binds a woman to duty. If the son of a pure and virtuous wife, and the son of an adulterous woman meet upon equal ground, those who are held in check only by the thought of their children will finally say to themselves, what does it matter?” It was the first time that a cloud had ever arisen between mother and son. On hearing his dearest hopes thus attacked, Pascal was tempted to rebel, and a flood of bitter words rose to his lips. However he had strength enough to control himself. “Marguerite alone can triumph over these implacable prejudices,” he thought; “when my mother knows her, she will feel how unjust they are!”