“About your marriage--of course you knew? Then, wretched girl, you’re at the bottom of ALL!” cried Mme. de Brecourt, flinging herself away, falling back on the sofa, prostrate there and covering her face with her hands. “He told me--he told me when I went with him to the studio!” Francie asseverated loud. “But he seems to have printed more.” “MORE? I should think so!” And Mme. de Brecourt rebounded, standing before her. “And you LET him--about yourself? You gave him preposterous facts?” “I told him--I told him--I don’t know what. It was for his paper--he wants everything. It’s a very fine paper,” said the girl. “A very fine paper?” Mme. de Brecourt flushed, with parted lips. “Have you SEEN, have you touched the hideous sheet? Ah my brother, my brother!” she quavered again, turning away. “If your brother were here you wouldn’t talk to me this way--he’d protect me, Gaston would!” cried Francie, on her feet, seizing her little muff and moving to the door. “Go away, go away or they’ll kill you!” her friend went on excitedly. “After all I’ve done for you--after the way I’ve lied for you!” And she sobbed, trying to repress her sobs. Francie, at this, broke out into a torrent of tears. “I’ll go home. Poppa, poppa!” she almost shrieked, reaching the door. “Oh your father--he has been a nice father, bringing you up in such ideas!” These words followed her with infinite scorn, but almost as Mme. de Brecourt uttered them, struck by a sound, she sprang after the girl, seized her, drew her back and held her a moment listening before she could pass out. “Hush--hush--they’re coming in here, they’re too anxious! Deny--deny it--say you know nothing! Your sister must have said things--and such things: say it all comes from HER!” “Oh you dreadful--is that what YOU do?” cried Francie, shaking herself free. The door opened as she spoke and Mme. de Brecourt walked quickly to the window, turning her back. Mme. de Cliche was there and Mr. Probert and M. de Brecourt and M. de Cliche. They entered in silence and M. de Brecourt, coming last, closed the door softly behind him. Francie had never been in a court of justice, but if she had had that experience these four persons would have reminded her of the jury filing back into their box with their verdict. They all looked at her hard as she stood in the middle of the room; Mme. de Brecourt gazed out of the window, wiping her tears; Mme. de Cliche grasped a newspaper, crumpled and partly folded. Francie got a quick impression, moving her eyes from one face to another, that old Mr. Probert was the worst; his mild ravaged expression was terrible. He was the one who looked at her least; he went to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel with his head in his hands. He seemed ten years older. “Ah mademoiselle, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” said Maxime de Cliche slowly, impressively, in a tone of the most respectful but most poignant reproach.