The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and there was an enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This was managed by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida’s waiting-maid. It was this woman who gave her mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her inexperience through the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida’s pet dream and hope was to be taken for a woman of irreproachable character, and of the highest fashion. Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of Father O——— had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his presence. An elegant coupé awaited her at the door of the Institution. She threw herself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-command to say “home,” in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group of priests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before this whirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the carriage-door was closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usual coquettish position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling her sobs in the quilted cushions. What a blow! The priest had refused to take her child, and at the first glance had discovered the humiliating truth that she believed to have thoroughly disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a woman of the world and of an irreproachable mother. Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes of shame the keen eyes of the good father. She recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, and remembered his incredulous smile at almost her first words. Silent and motionless in the other corner of the carriage sat Jack, looking sadly at his mother, unable to comprehend her despair. He vaguely conceived himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, and yet was secretly glad that he had not been left at the school. For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day; his mother had extorted a promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and all was ready, and the child’s heart was full of trouble; and now at the last moment he was reprieved. If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have thanked her; how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under her furs, in the little coupé in which they had had so many happy hours together—hours which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought of the afternoons in the Bois, of the long drives through the gay city of Paris—a city so new to both of them, and full of excitement and interest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere street incident, delighted them. “Look, Jack—” “Look, mamma—” They were two children together, and together they peered from the window,—the child’s head with its golden curls close to the mother’s face tightly veiled in black lace. A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these sweet recollections. “_Mon dieu!_” she cried, wringing her hands, “what have I done to be so wretched?”