“Poor children! What an unhappy wretch I am! But I must deprive myself of your caresses--you will never call me mother again. And he--he will never more call me his Eugénie!--Oh! cruelly am I punished!” Her sobs redoubled, and I had to summon all my courage to refrain from flying to her, wiping away her tears and pressing her to my heart as of old. We remained in those respective positions for a long while. At last Eugénie rose and seemed to be on the point of taking leave of her children, when someone softly opened the door. Eugénie started back in alarm; but she was reassured when she recognized Marguerite. The latter carefully closed the door, then seated herself by Eugénie’s side; and although they spoke in low tones, I did not lose a word of their conversation. “My husband is working; I did not feel like sleeping, and I thought that I should find you here; so I came as quietly as possible. However, there’s no light in Monsieur Blémont’s room, and I fancy that he has long been asleep.--Well! still crying! You are making yourself worse--you are very foolish.” “Oh! madame, tears and regrets are my lot henceforth. I cannot expect any other existence.” “Who knows? you must not lose hope; if your husband could read the depths of your heart, I believe that he would forgive you.” “No, madame, for he would always remember my sin; nothing would make my motives less blameworthy in his eyes. And yet, although I am very guilty, I am less so perhaps than he thinks. You have understood me, for women can understand one another. But a man! he sees only the crime, without looking to see what might have driven a woman to forget her duties. And yet, heaven is my witness that, if I had loved him less, I should never have become guilty. If he should hear me say that, he would smile with pity, with contempt; but you--you know that it is true.” Eugénie laid her head on Marguerite’s shoulder, and sobbed more bitterly than ever. For some minutes they said nothing. At last Eugénie continued: “I know that my jealousy did not justify me in becoming guilty; but, my God! as if I knew what I was doing! I believed that I was forgotten, deceived, betrayed, by a husband whom I adored. I had but one desire--to repay a part of what he had made me suffer. ‘Play the flirt,’ I was told, ‘and you will bring your husband back to your arms; men soon become cold to a woman whom no one seems to desire to possess.’--I believed that; or, rather, I believed that Henri had never loved me; and then I tried to cease loving him. You know, madame, how jealous I was of you. That ball at which you were--at which he danced with you--oh! that ball fairly drove me mad. Before that, my jealousy had banished peace from our household. Alas! it was never to return! I plunged into the whirlpool of society; not that I was happy there; but I tried to forget, and I was pleased to see that he was distressed by my conduct.