“My little Countess de Marthenay,” she whispered in her ear as she kissed her. But the girl was still silent, and her tears began to flow. “You want to marry, don’t you? And you confided in your father. Nothing could please me better. We shall never be parted. Armand has promised me that.” Still unwilling to doubt the realisation of her plans, after a pause, she continued: “He will get on. If he cannot get the position he wants he will resign. Your fortune will be sufficient to live on without his working, and, besides, in society one always has something to do.” Alice’s tears and persistent silence at last warned her mother that the trouble she feared was a reality. “I was mistaken then, dearest child? You refuse to be his wife? You don’t care for him?” Yes, that was it. Alice made an affirmative gesture and Madame Dulaurens knew with absolute certainty that her daughter’s heart was given to Marcel Guibert. She was mistress enough of herself to hide her discomfiture, and she even began at once to think out a way of avoiding an event which she considered without hesitation or reflection to be a great catastrophe. So much was she guided by her unrestrained prejudices and preconceptions, and by a maternal passion whose selfishness was incapable of sacrifice. “You don’t want to marry yet, dearest,” she murmured softly. “Is it because you want to stay with me? But I want you so much to be happy that I cannot agree to keep you--although I shall feel the separation bitterly--so long as I know that you are happy, and can see with my own eyes daily that my darling is contented. But you don’t answer. It isn’t that, then? Have you given way to your feelings without my permission? Can you have defied me to that extent?” The rebuke, which had only the effect of redoubling Alice’s tears, escaped Madame Dulaurens in an unguarded moment. Now her diplomacy returned to her. She stopped short, and when she began again it was in a coaxing voice. “Am I not your best friend and confidante? Have you any secrets from me? Dearest, I have not deserved this. If you don’t love M. de Marthenay, if you love someone else, you must tell me. And we will arrange your future together.” A new hope filled the girl’s heart and at last she sighed out: “Yes, Mamma.” “And who is it?” asked Madame Dulaurens, kissing her. “Who has stolen my darling’s heart? Your lips are quite near my ear. Tell me his name.” She knew the name quite well, yet she wanted to hear it from the trembling mouth. Alice could not resist this gentleness. She dried her eyes and managed to say, with one of those quivers of the whole body which follow a violent fit of sobbing: “Madame Guibert is coming presently.... She wants to speak about me ... for her son.” “For the captain?” “Yes.” “Oh, my dearest! How you hurt me!”