They all disputed for the honor of escorting the young lady home. Guillot would offer his arm, Louise insist on carrying the child, Jacques on acting as guide, and Sans-Souci on going before as skirmisher. But Adeline, in order to make none of them jealous, returned alone with her maid when it was not late, unless the weather was very fine; for in that case, Villeneuve-Saint-Georges was a pleasant walk, which they insisted upon taking with Madame Murville, who was touched by the attachment which the peasants showed for her. Several months passed in this way. Winter had come, the verdure had disappeared, the country was dismal. Adeline received no company. She was alone in her house with her maid and an old gardener, who had replaced the insolent concierge, dismissed by Adeline because she had learned that he turned the poor people and beggars harshly away when they begged a crust of bread at her door. Adeline’s only diversion was to go to the farm, when the weather was fine and the air not too sharp for her child. Jacques was conscious of a feeling of satisfaction as soon as he saw her; but he concealed a large part of his sensations, in order not to arouse the curiosity of the peasants. Sans-Souci was the only one who was in Jacques’s confidence; he knew that Adeline was the wife of Jacques’s brother; but he had sworn not to reveal the secret to anyone; and his oath could be relied upon, although privately he raged at his inability to inform Adeline of the bond between her and his friend. But Jacques insisted that it should be so. He had divined a part of his sister-in-law’s griefs, and he did not wish to intensify them by telling her of Edouard’s conduct toward him. Meanwhile, they were very far from suspecting at the farm what was taking place in Paris. Intelligence arrived only too soon, to destroy such repose as Adeline still enjoyed. It was Dufresne who had taken it upon himself to wreck the peace of mind of the woman whose scorn he was unable to forgive. One day, Adeline learned that a gentleman just from Paris desired to speak with her; she went to the salon where the stranger was, and shuddered with horror when she saw Dufresne, seated in an easy-chair, and placidly awaiting her arrival. “You here, monsieur!” she said, striving to recover her courage; “I did not suppose that you would dare to appear in my presence again!” “I beg pardon, madame,” Dufresne replied in a hypocritical tone; “I hoped time would lessen your hatred.” “Never, monsieur; you know too well that your outrages can never be effaced from my memory! Make haste to tell me what brings you here.” “I am going to cause you distress again; but your husband’s orders----” “Speak; I am prepared for anything.” “Your mother, you know, of course----” “My mother! Oh heaven! It cannot be that she is sick? But she wrote me only a short time ago.” “An attack of apoplexy, a blood vessel----” “Great God! she is dead, and I did not see her in her last moments!”