Unaccustomed tears stood on the seamed cheeks of M. Galland. It was well that fiery old de Brèze had not arrived in person. The visage of the white chatelaine told such a tale that bloodshed might have ensued which all would have deplored. The interview was painful, and it behoved him to cut it short. "If the person intends to obey orders," the solicitor said curtly, looking at his watch, "she had better waste no time. Such clothes as she cannot pack quickly will be sent after her. I have messages from your father, marquise, that must not be delivered here. Might I ask the favour of being conducted to the nursery, that I may make faithful reports to my employer?" Aglaé bit her lips. This was a cunning stroke to present a theatrical display, _à la Medea_. Gabrielle consented gratefully, and led the way, leaving the marquis tingling with humbled vanity, and a reawakened remorse that would not be quieted. His face was buried in his hands, and he was too absorbed in the contemplation of his own outraged self to attend to the woes of others. Aglaé sidled up to the abbé timidly. Her usual masterful confidence had melted into air. "Is there no hope?" she whispered. "None!" was the blunt rejoinder. "You must submit to instant banishment, which serves you right. So it was you who, by your besotted folly drove her to this? I hope you will die in penury. Idiot! Not to know that the vilest animal will turn if threatened in its offspring." Of course, the abbé was just the man to jump upon the fallen! Was it her fault that she had been kept in the dark with regard to circumstances, which, if known, would have changed her tactics? All was not lost. It was but a temporary defeat such as the most skilful generals must submit to sometimes. It would not do to quarrel openly with the abbé, though, in her trouble he was behaving like a brute. Therefore, while wreathing her face in smiles, she registered an inward vow to remember, and be bitterly revenged some day. "_Sans rancune!_" she said lightly, holding out her large brown hand. "You are not merciful, but I forgive you: am I not admirably generous? You think I am cast out for ever. A grievous mistake; so we had best still be friends. Look at him. He is chafing now, wincing under the whip thong. In the distractions of the capital he might forget me. Here he will miss me and be sorry." It was likely that in that much she was right. The house of cards had been kicked over by her clumsy foot, and must be recommenced from the foundations. Who could foretell what the stormy future might bring forth? It was politic to keep on civil terms with one who might yet prove formidable--or useful.