“Silly girl,” whispered Clotilde, “let him think you will avenge yourself—­”

“I wish to die irreproachable and without the mere semblance of doing wrong,” replied Sabine.  “A woman’s vengeance should be worthy of her love.”

“My child,” said the duchess to her daughter, “a mother must of course see life more coolly than you can see it.  Love is not the end, but the means, of the Family.  Do not imitate that poor Baronne de Macumer.  Excessive passion is unfruitful and deadly.  And remember, God sends us afflictions with knowledge of our needs.  Now that Athenais’ marriage is arranged, I can give all my thoughts to you.  In fact, I have already talked of this delicate crisis in your life with your father and the Duc de Chaulieu, and also with d’Ajuda; we shall certainly find means to bring Calyste back to you.”

“There is always one resource with the Marquise de Rochefide,” remarked Clotilde, smiling, to her sister; “she never keeps her adorers long.”

“D’Ajuda, my darling,” continued the duchess, “was Monsieur de Rochefide’s brother-in-law.  If our dear confessor approves of certain little manoeuvres to which we must have recourse to carry out a plan which I have proposed to your father, I can guarantee to you the recovery of Calyste.  My conscience is repugnant to the use of such means, and I must first submit them to the judgment of the Abbe Brossette.  We shall not wait, my child, till you are in extremis before coming to your relief.  Keep a good heart!  Your grief to-night is so bitter that my secret escapes me; but it is impossible for me not to give you a little hope.”

“Will it make Calyste unhappy?” asked Sabine, looking anxiously at the duchess.

“Oh, heavens! shall I ever be as silly as that!” cried Athenais, naively.

“Ah, little girl, you know nothing of the precipices down which our virtue flings us when led by love,” replied Sabine, making a sort of moral revelation, so distraught was she by her woe.

The speech was uttered with such incisive bitterness that the duchess, enlightened by the tone and accent and look of her daughter, felt certain there was some hidden trouble.

“My dears, it is midnight; come, go to bed,” she said to Clotilde and Athenais, whose eyes were shining.

“In spite of my thirty-five years I appear to be de trop,” said Clotilde, laughing.  While Athenais kissed her mother, Clotilde leaned over Sabine and said in her ear:  “You will tell what it is?  I’ll dine with you to-morrow.  If my mother’s conscience won’t let her act, I—­I myself will get Calyste out of the hands of the infidels.”

“Well, Sabine,” said the duchess, taking her daughter into her bedroom, “tell me, what new trouble is there, my child?”

“Mamma, I am lost!”

“But how?”