“You must have been, to authorize the boasts of Monsieur de Cymier. He had seen Fred so seldom, and Tonquin had so changed him that he spoke in his presence--without supposing any one would interfere. I dare not tell you what he said--” “Whatever spite or revenge suggested to him, no doubt,” said Jacqueline. “Listen, Giselle--Oh, you must listen. I shall not be long.” She forced her to sit down; she crouched on a foot stool at her feet, holding her hands in hers so tightly that Giselle could not draw them away, and began her story, with all its details, of what had happened to her since she left Fresne. She told of her meeting with Wanda; of the fatal evening which had resulted in her expulsion from the convent; her disgust at the Sparks family; the snare prepared for her by Madame Strahlberg. “And I can not tell you all,” she added, “I can not tell you what drove me away from my true friends, and threw me among these people--” Giselle’s sad smile seemed to answer, “No need--I am aware of it--I know my husband.” Encouraged by this, Jacqueline went on with her confession, hiding nothing that was wrong, showing herself just as she had been, a poor, proud child who had set out to battle for herself in a dangerous world. At every step she had been more and more conscious of her own imprudence, of her own weakness, and of an ever-increasing desire to be done with independence; to submit to law, to be subject to any rules which would deliver her from the necessity of obeying no will but her own. “Ah!” she cried, “I am so disgusted with independence, with amusement, and amusing people! Tell me what to do in future--I am weary of taking charge of myself. I said so the other day to the Abbe Bardin. He is the only person I have seen since my return. It seems to me I am coming back to my old ideas--you remember how I once wished to end my days in the cell of a Carmelite? You might love me again then, perhaps, and Fred and poor Madame d’Argy, who must feel so bitterly against me since her son was wounded, might forgive me. No one feels bitterly against the dead, and it is the same as being dead to be a Carmelite nun. You would all speak of me sometimes to each other as one who had been very unhappy, who had been guilty of great foolishness, but who had repaired her faults as best she could.” Poor Jacqueline! She was no longer a girl of the period; in her grief and humiliation she belonged to the past. Old-fashioned forms of penitence attracted her. “And what did the Abbe Bardin tell you?” asked Giselle, with a slight movement of her shoulders. “He only told me that he could not say at present whether that were my vocation.” “Nor can I,” said Giselle. Jacqueline lifted up her face, wet with tears, which she had been leaning on the lap of Giselle.