"Gerard cannot marry you," she said; "he does not love you." "He does." "You fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some kindness to you, on seeing others pay you such little attention. But he does not love you." "He does. He loves me first because I'm not such a fool as many others are, and particularly because I'm young." This was a fresh wound for the Baroness; one inflicted with mocking cruelty in which rang out all the daughter's triumphant delight at seeing her mother's beauty at last ripening and waning. "Ah! my poor mamma, you no longer know what it is to be young. If I'm not beautiful, at all events I'm young; my eyes are clear and my lips are fresh. And my hair's so long too, and I've so much of it that it would suffice to gown me if I chose. You see, one's never ugly when one's young. Whereas, my poor mamma, everything is ended when one gets old. It's all very well for a woman to have been beautiful, and to strive to keep so, but in reality there's only ruin left, and shame and disgust." She spoke these words in such a sharp, ferocious voice that each of them entered her mother's heart like a knife. Tears rose to the eyes of the wretched woman, again stricken in her bleeding wound. Ah! it was true, she remained without weapons against youth. And all her anguish came from the consciousness that she was growing old, from the feeling that love was departing from her now, that like a fruit she had ripened and fallen from the tree. "But Gerard's mother will never let him marry you," she said. "He will prevail on her; that's his concern. I've a dowry of two millions, and two millions can settle many things." "Do you now want to libel him, and say that he's marrying you for your money?" "No, indeed! Gerard's a very nice and honest fellow. He loves me and he's marrying me for myself. But, after all, he isn't rich; he still has no assured position, although he's thirty-six; and there may well be some advantage in a wife who brings you wealth as well as happiness. For, you hear, mamma, it's happiness I'm bringing him, real happiness, love that's shared and is certain of the future." Once again their faces drew close together. The hateful scene, interrupted by sounds around them, postponed, and then resumed, was dragging on, becoming a perfect drama full of murderous violence, although they never shouted, but still spoke on in low and gasping voices. Neither gave way to the other, though at every moment they were liable to some surprise; for not only were all the doors open, so that the servants might come in, but the Baron's voice still rang out gaily, close at hand. "He loves you, he loves you"--continued Eve. "That's what you say. But _he_ never told you so." "He has told me so twenty times; he repeats it every time that we are alone together!" "Yes, just as one says it to a little girl by way of amusing her. But he has never told you that he meant to marry you."