Félise sniffed at such terrors. Bigourdin, in desperation, asked what he was to tell the Viriots. “The truth,” said Félise. But what was the truth? “Tell me, my little Félise,” said he, gently, “there is, by chance, no one else?” Then Félise waxed indignant and routed the unhappy man. She gave him to understand that she was a _jeune fille bien élevée_ and was not in the habit of behaving like a kitchenmaid. It was cruel and insulting to accuse her of clandestine love-affairs. And Bigourdin, bound by his honourable conventions, knew that she was justified in her resentment. Again he plucked at his bristles, scared by the spectacle of outraged maidenhood. The tender-eyed dove had become a flashing little eagle. A wilier man than he might have suspected the over-protesting damsel. Woman-like, she pressed her advantage. “_Mon oncle_, I love you with all my heart, but you are a man and you don’t understand.” “That is absolutely true,” said he. “So you see there is only one person I can explain it to, and that is my mother.” Thus she completed the vicious little circle. And again the helpless Bigourdin walked across the salon and turned his back on her and muttered the incantation which brings relief to distracted man. But this time she went up to him and put an arm round his great body and laid her face against his sleeve. “_Tu sais, je suis bien malheureuse._” It was a knife stuck in the honest fellow’s heart. He caught her to him and in his turn protested vehemently. He would not allow her to be unhappy. He would cut off his head rather than allow her to be unhappy. He would do anything—his French caution forbade an offer to send the Viriots packing—anything in reason to bring the colour back to her white cheeks. Suddenly he had an inspiration which glowed all over his broad face and caused him to hold her out at arms’ length and laugh joyously. “You can’t see your mother—but there is your good Aunt Clothilde. She will be a second mother to you. A woman so pious and so sympathetic. You will be able to tell her all your troubles. She has married a regiment of daughters. What she doesn’t know of young girls isn’t worth knowing. You are tired, you are ill. You need a change, a little holiday. Go and spend a month with her, and when you come back we’ll see what can be done with regard to Lucien. I’ll write to her now.” And without waiting to hear her demure “_Bien, mon oncle_,” he escaped to the _bureau_ where he should find the writing materials which did not profane the sacred primness of the salon, and plunged into correspondence. Félise, left alone, pondered for a moment or two, with faint wrinkling of her smooth forehead, and then, sketching a gesture of fatalistic resignation, went off to the kitchen, where a great special boiling of goose livers was in progress. On the way she met Martin carrying a load of porcelain pots. But she passed him by coldly; and for the rest of the day she scarcely threw at him a couple of words.