"Listen," said Madame, "life is long, and nature merciful. I recovered very slowly; but I tried to be brave; I tried to take an interest in the life around me: the sordid, sunless life of the very poor, so much sadder than my own. Then Jules Lachesnais came to live with us—with my father and me—in order to study the English language and our political institutions. A great friendship sprang up between us. When my father died, Jules urged me to marry him. I was utterly alone in the world; I felt a deep affection for him; and I consented." She waited for Marjolaine to say something; but Marjolaine was silent. "He took me to France, where you were born. We went through the horrors of the Revolution side by side. He played an active part in those horrible days; always on the side of justice and moderation. The aim of his life was to see his country under a constitutional government, such as he had learnt to admire during his stay in England. The excesses he was forced to witness disgusted him, and he resisted them with all his might." Madame was lost in her reminiscences. "Ah, yes! You were too young to know; but we all ran grave risks of falling victims to the guillotine. Your father hailed Napoleon as a deliverer; but when Napoleon began to usurp power, he foresaw the dawning tyranny; still more when Napoleon was made consul for life. He retired more and more from public affairs, thereby incurring the tyrant’s anger and again endangering his life. When Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor your father protested publicly—think of the courage! He was expelled, and he died disappointed and heartbroken. He was a brave, true man, faithful to his ideals. I was very proud of him; very happy and contented. And I _am_ very happy and contented now," she added defiantly,—"or I shall be, when I see you have won the victory!" But Marjolaine was merciless. This was all very well, as far as her mother was concerned. "But what became of poor Jack?" she asked. "Poor Jack!" Madame laughed bitterly. "Poor Jack had married some great lady!" At once poor Jack had lost all Marjolaine’s sympathy. She muttered between her teeth, "Caroline Thring." "I tell you," protested Madame—and perhaps she protested just a shade too strongly—"I ceased to think of him. I forgot him." Marjolaine’s brow was puckered in thought. Could one forget? "But, mother," she said, very simply, "if you had forgotten him, why did you swoon when you heard his name?" Down went the cloak of self-deception Madame had so carefully wrapped round herself. She took her daughter’s face in both her hands and looked at her sadly. "Ah! my little girl is become a woman indeed! The innocence of the dove, and the guile of the serpent!—Well! Think over what I have told you. Come, now, chérie, you promise to fight?" "Yes," said Marjolaine, without conviction. "You promise to conquer?" "I promise to try." "At least you see there can be nothing between Lord Otford’s son and my daughter?"