“Then Anna told her of Haverleigh’s visit to Millfield; of his admiration for herself; of her desire for money and position; of the marriage in the church, which was a real marriage; of the foolish words spoken and overheard in New York; of Haverleigh’s jealousy and rage; of the punishment finally inflicted upon her, and of her husband’s different moods since, sometimes so loving as to fill her with disgust, and again revengeful and savage to a degree which made her dread him as a madman. “Ah, _ma Petite_,” Eugenie cried, ‘and he is a madman, at times—much mad; but, tell me, was there no other one whom _Petite_ cared for at home, in that quiet, small town? No _grande passion_ to make monsieur jealous?’ “So much had happened since the days when Anna walked home from church with Hal Morton, and sang to him in the twilight, that she had almost forgotten him, but thoughts of him came back to her now, and by the sudden heaving of her chest, and the flush which rose to her forehead, Eugenie guessed that there was some _grande passion_, as she named it, and very adroitly drew from Anna that somebody was perhaps sadder for her marriage, ‘though I never should have married him,’ she said, ‘We were both too poor, and Mr. Morton’s family were the first in Boston.’ “‘_Mon Dieu. Quel difference_,’ Eugenie exclaimed, with a shrug. ‘Are you not all born—what you call it in English—governors! _Non, pardonnez_—sovereigns! I do so have things mixed.’ “Anna laughed at the mistake, the first real, hearty laugh in which she had indulged since she came to Chateau d’Or, and said: “‘Yes, but sometimes there’s a difference in sovereigns, you know.’ “‘_Oh, ciel_, but it’s to me very strange. I think I should like _votre republique_, but go on. You never think to marry Monsieur Morton, but you like him much, and Monsieur Haverleigh find it out, and trust me, child, that broil—bake—fry; what you call it, rankle in his jealous brain, for however many passions he have, he want you to own but one. _Me comprenez vous? Bien! Je commence a comprendre l’affaire_; but I can help _la petite madame_, and I will. And _la mere_, does she never know where you stay all these time?’ “There was then a rain of tears as Anna told of her mother’s death, and her sister’s removal to some place in the far West, whose name she did not even know, and how, latterly, the sister had ceased to write at all, Mr. Haverleigh said. “‘And they think I am in a mad-house, and that is the worst of all. Oh, I wish I were dead like mother, for I’ve given up all hope of leaving Chateau d’Or, and when baby is born I hope I’ll die,’ Anna said, amid her tears.