Jack, terrified at seeing his mother so ill, had seated himself on the edge of the bed; where, looking at her anxiously, he in silence asked her pardon for the sorrow he had caused her. “There! get away, Master Jack. Your mother is all right. I must help her dress now.” “What! You do not mean, Constant, that I must go to this ball. I have no heart to amuse myself.” “Pshaw! I know you, madame. You have but five minutes. Just look at this pretty costume, these rose-colored stockings, and your little cap.” She shook out the skirts, displayed the trimming, and jingled the little bells which adorned it, and Ida ceased to resist. While his mother was dressing, Jack went into the boudoir, and remained alone in the dark. The little room, perfumed and coquettish, was, it is true, partially illuminated by the gas lamps on the boulevard. Sadly enough the child leaned against the windows and thought of the day that was just over. By degrees, without knowing how, he felt himself to be “the poor child” of whom the priest had spoken in such compassionate tones. It is so singular to hear one’s self pitied when one believes one’s self to be happy. There are sorrows, in fact, so well concealed, that those who have caused them, and even sometimes their victims, do not divine them. The door opened—his mother was ready. “Come in, Master Jack, and see if this is not lovely.” Ah! what a charming Folly! Silver and pink, lustrous satin and delicate lace. What a lovely rustling of spangles when she moved! The child looked on in admiration, while the mother, light and airy, waving her Momus staff, smiled at Jack, and smiled at herself in the Psyche, without at that time asking heaven why she was so unhappy. Then Constant threw over her shoulders a warm cloak, and accompanied her to the carriage, while Jack, leaning over the railing, watched from stair to stair, moving almost as if she were dancing the little pink slippers embroidered with silver, that bore his mother to balls where children could not go. As the last sound of the silver bells died away, he turned towards the salon, disturbed and anxious for the first time by the solitude in which he ordinarily passed his evenings. When Madame de Barancy dined out, Master Jack was confided to the tender mercies of Constant. “She will dine with you,” said Ida.