Her mother! A lover! What a shame! She had read so many books in which women, even mothers, had overstepped the bounds of propriety, to regain their honor at the pages of the climax, that she was not astonished beyond measure at finding herself enveloped in a drama similar to all those of her reading. The violence of her first grief, the cruel shock of surprise, had already worn off a little, in the confused remembrance of analogous situations. Her mind had rambled among such tragic adventures, painted by the novel-writers, that the horrible discovery seemed, little by little, like the natural continuation of some serial story, begun the evening before. She said to herself: "I will save my mother." And almost reassured by this heroic resolution, she felt herself strengthened, ready at once for the devotion and the struggle. She reflected on the means which must be employed. A single one seemed good, which was quite in keeping with her romantic nature. And she rehearsed the interview which she should have with the Marquise, as an actor rehearses the scene which he is going to play. The sun had risen. The servants were stirring about the house. The chambermaid came with the chocolate. Yvette put the tray on the table and said: "You will say to my mother that I am not well, that I am going to stay in bed until those gentlemen leave, that I could not sleep last night, and that I do not want to be disturbed because I am going to try to rest." The servant, surprised, looked at the wet dress, which had fallen like a rag on the carpet. "So Mademoiselle has been out?" she said. "Yes, I went out for a walk in the rain to refresh myself." The maid picked up the skirts, stockings, and wet shoes; then she went away carrying on her arm, with fastidious precautions, these garments, soaked as the clothes of a drowned person. And Yvette waited, well knowing that her mother would come to her. The Marquise entered, having jumped from her bed at the first words of the chambermaid, for a suspicion had possessed her, heart since that cry: "Mamma!" heard in the dark. "What is the matter?" she said. Yvette looked at her and stammered: "I--I--" Then overpowered by a sudden and terrible emotion, she began to choke. The Marquise, astonished, again asked: "What in the world is the matter with you?" Then, forgetting all her plans and prepared phrases, the young girl hid her face in both hands and stammered: "Oh! mamma! Oh! mamma!" Madame Obardi stood by the bed, too much affected thoroughly to understand, but guessing almost everything, with that subtile instinct whence she derived her strength. As Yvette could not speak, choked with tears, her mother, worn out finally and feeling some fearful explanation coming, brusquely asked: "Come, will you tell me what the matter is?" Yvette could hardly utter the words: "Oh! last night--I saw--your window." The Marquise, very pale; said: "Well? what of it?"