Although her masterful nature was irritated by this rebellion, she understood that now she must not put pressure on her child. She covered her with kisses and overwhelmed her with kind words, but it was all in vain. “What is the matter with you to-night?” she repeated. “Nothing,” said Alice in a firm voice, which her mother did not recognise. In the face of such profundity of sorrow Madame Dulaurens hesitated, not knowing which to ask of the two questions that burned her lips. “Is it about your husband?” she asked at last. She had guessed that Commander Guibert’s death had something to do with these tears. But she did not dare to allude to the secret which she had once treated so lightly. “Yes,” whispered Alice, weakening again. And they both accepted this lie, by which they were spared the reproach which no passing of time could wipe away. Both were thinking of Marcel Guibert and they talked about Armand de Marthenay. Alice began to complain of her joyless life. “We were wrong to ask him to resign.” “Oh, my dearest,” said her mother, “how you hurt me! So you would have agreed to desert me?” “Was it better that my husband should desert me?” “I should have died,” exclaimed Madame Dulaurens energetically, “if you had had to go. You will never know how I love you and how I want to make you happy!” She spoke in entirely good faith. Deceived by her daughter’s words, she had regained the serenity which the memory of death had almost destroyed. Taught by her own experience, she was not in the least surprised at the disillusionment of Armand’s neglected wife. Was it not the lot of most women? And had she not, what so many women lacked, the consolation of a warm motherly heart to fly to? But Alice saw another mother, who at this hour was draining her cup of sorrow, a poor old woman by whose side she longed to be, where she would have been if she had listened to the dictates of her heart. Like all weaklings who revolt, she went beyond the bounds and did not stop short of injustice to her own mother. They looked at each other. Madame Dulaurens understood at last and felt a deep anguish. A gulf yawned between her and her daughter. There had suddenly and relentlessly been revealed to both of them the difference of their two natures, the one imperious and under the sway of worldly prejudices, the other shrinking, docile, and under no sway but that of the heart. When they went back to the drawing-room a few minutes later, calm, and leaning on each other’s arms, nobody could have suspected the domestic drama which had just parted them asunder. Isabelle was leading the conversation, talking loudly, making jokes, and showing her white teeth. And from time to time she looked at her surroundings, at her husband, at her admirers, M. de Marthenay, M. de Lavernay, and particularly at Clément Dulaurens, with eyes full of hatred and scorn. She detested them all, because they could not tell her that Jean Berlier was still alive.