Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece of advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of a pupil in disgrace. A deep silence reigned. Madame de Bergenheim had dropped her embroidery without noticing it. From time to time she trembled as if a chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch the smoke ascending above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some imaginary sound. “Truly,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal down in her lap, “good morals have made great progress since the July revolution. Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier with her lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who poisons her husband and kills herself afterward. If I were superstitious, I should say that the world was coming to an end. What do you think of such atrocious doings, my dear?” Clemence raised her head with an effort, and answered, in a gloomy voice: “You must pardon her, since she is dead.” “You are very indulgent,” replied the old aunt; “such creatures ought to be burned alive, like the Brinvilliers.” “They often speak in the papers of husbands who kill their wives, but not so often of wives killing their husbands,” said Aline, with the partisan feeling natural to the fair sex. “It is not proper that you should talk of such horrid things,” said the old lady, in a severe tone; “behold the fruits of all the morals of the age! It is the effect of all the disgusting stuff that is acted nowadays upon the stage and written in novels. When one thinks of the fine education that is given youth at the present time, it is enough to make one tremble for the future!” “Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle, you may be sure that I shall never kill my husband,” replied the young girl, to whom this remark seemed particularly addressed. A stifled groan, which Madame de Bergenheim could not suppress, attracted the attention of the two ladies. “What is the matter with you?” asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, noticing for the first time her niece’s dejected air and the frightened expression in her eyes. “Nothing,” murmured the latter; “I think it is the heat of the room.” Aline hastily opened a window, then went and took her sister-in-law’s hands in her own. “You have a fever,” said she; “your hands burn and your forehead also; I did not dare tell you, but your beautiful color--” A frightful cry which Madame de Bergenheim uttered made the young girl draw back in fright. “Clemence! Clemence!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who thought that her niece had gone insane. “Did you not hear?” she cried, with an accent of terror impossible to describe. She darted suddenly toward the drawing-room door; but, instead of opening it, she leaned against it with arms crossed. Then she ran two or three times around the room in a sort of frenzy, and ended by falling upon her knees before the sofa and burying her head in its cushions.