This was more than Mlle. Gilberte could bear. Her heart was breaking at the sight of her mother’s tears, that angel of meekness and resignation. Throwing her arms around her neck, and kissing her on the eyes, “Mother,” she murmured, “adored mother, I beg of you do not weep thus! Speak to me! What do you wish me to do?” Gently the poor woman drew back. “Tell me the truth,” she answered. Was it not certain that this was the very thing she would ask; in fact, the only thing she could ask? Ah! how much would the young girl have preferred one of her father’s violent scenes, and brutalities which would have exalted her energy, instead of crushing it! Attempting to gain time, “Well, yes,” she answered, “I’ll tell you every thing, mother, but not now, to-morrow, later.” She was about to yield, however, when her father’s arrival cut short their conversation. The cashier of the Mutual Credit was quite lively that night. He was humming a tune, a thing which did not happen to him four times a year, and which was indicative of the most extreme satisfaction. But he stopped short at the sight of the disturbed countenance of his wife and daughter. “What is the matter?” he inquired. “Nothing,” hastily answered Mlle. Gilberte,--“nothing at all, father.” “Then you are crying for your amusement,” he said. “Come, be candid for once, and confess that Maxence has been at his tricks again!” “You are mistaken, father: I swear it!” He asked no further questions, being in his nature not very curious, whether because family matters were of so little consequence to him, or because he had a vague idea that his general behavior deprived him of all right to their confidence. “Very well, then,” he said in a gruff tone, “let us all go to bed. I have worked so hard to-day, that I am quite exhausted. People who pretend that business is dull make me laugh. Never has M. de Thaller been in the way of making so much money as now.” When he spoke, they obeyed. So that Mlle. Gilberte was thus going to have the whole night before her to resume possession of herself, to pass over in her mind the events of the evening, and deliberate coolly upon the decision she must come to; for, she could not doubt it, Mme. Favoral would, the very next day, renew her questions. What should she say? All? Mlle. Gilberte felt disposed to do so by all the aspirations of her heart, by the certainty of indulgent complicity, by the thought of finding in a sympathetic soul the echo of her joys, of her troubles, and of her hopes. Yes. But Mme. Favoral was still the same woman, whose firmest resolutions vanished under the gaze of her husband. Let a pretender come; let a struggle begin, as in the case of M. Costeclar,--would she have strength enough to remain silent? No!