Gabrielle stared at her. “Why should any man snare my heart?” she asked in pitiful wonder. “I have never harmed any man, nor any living thing.” She caught her breath. “Oh, Mother, feel my heart beating! It beats as if it would burst. Why does my heart beat so? Am I dying? Do you think that I must die? Yet, Mother, my heart is aching so that I would that I could die! Is not what God made good ... you told me that God was love ... was not mankind made by God ... and is not love the world’s delight?” “It is its direst misery,” said Margot bitterly. “God keep you from it. Two parts are pain, two sorrow, and the other two parts are death.” “I don’t fear death,” said Gabrielle. “Then why should I fear love?” “Because it is a lie,” cried Margot, beside herself. “I conjure you, by God’s sorrow, close your ears against it.” “How can I close my ears against it when I hear it in my sleep?” Margot’s delight in her daughter’s beauty was turned into bitterness. “Peace!” she cried. “And leave me. All this will pass away.” But, deep within, her heart said, “Never!” Innocence will be indiscreet. Sin alone is always clever. And in youth great things are lightly asked and lightly given. “Go!” she cried to Gabrielle. Gabrielle left the room. Margot buried her face in her hands. It is hard for woman to stand alone and to resist temptation forever. Soon or late the black moment comes; reason is off guard; prudence abandons her; caution is thrown to the winds: passion betrays. Here is an irremediable disease which baffles the skill of the physicians. Margot recoiled as she faced the future. Time had become a terror. Burning tears flowed down her cheeks. There is no woe so sickening as the monotone of fear, the shuddering, interior sense of impending catastrophe. Nor is it eased by the strange apathy which is granted to the doomed. Margot groaned in an agony, half remorse, half apprehension. Could God set so foul a seal upon so fair a thing? Again on a day Gabrielle came in from the garden, her eyes dry-burning and famine-bright. “Mother, give me a lover!” she cried. “Nietta Pascault has one!” “Then alas and alack for Nietta Pascault!” cried Margot. “But, Mother, he called her his heart’s delight; she did not speak, but she kissed him; and he kissed her until he must have bruised her lips; yet she did not seem to care ... rather she seemed to like it. And all he said was ‘Love me! Love me!’ and all she said was ‘Yes,’ and ‘Yes!’ And when he kissed her she grew pale; I thought that she was dead, ... but he held her in his arms, Mother, and kissed her again and again, as though he would kiss her back to life. Will kisses bring one back from the dead? For, Mother, suddenly she opened her eyes as if she lived only for love; and then all he said was ‘Love me!’ and all she said was ‘Yes!’” Margot’s heart fainted.