The generous girl was right.  She knew her uncle’s heart.

After having sacrificed her husband to her mother, Mme. Fauvel was about to immolate her husband and children for Raoul.

As a general thing, a first fault draws many others in its train.  As an impalpable flake is the beginning of an avalanche, so an imprudence is often the prelude to a great crime.

To false situations there is but one safe issue:  truth.

Mme. Fauvel’s resistance grew weaker and more faint, as her niece pointed out the line for her to pursue:  the path of wifely duty.

“But,” she faintly argued, “I cannot accept your sacrifice.  What sort of a life will you lead with this man?”

“We can hope for the best,” replied Madeleine with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; “he loves me, he says; perhaps he will be kind to me.”

“Ah, if I only knew where to obtain money!  It is money that the grasping man wants; money alone will satisfy him.”

“Does he not want it for Raoul?  Has not Raoul, by his extravagant follies, dug an abyss which must be bridged over by money?  If I could only believe M. de Clameran!”

Mme. Fauvel looked at her niece with bewildered curiosity.

What! this inexperienced girl had weighed the matter in its different lights before deciding upon a surrender; whereas, she, a wife and a mother, had blindly yielded to the inspirations of her heart!

“What do you mean?  Madeleine, what do you suspect?”

“I mean this, aunt:  that I do not believe that Clameran has any thought of his nephew’s welfare.  Once in possession of my fortune, he may leave you and Raoul to your fates.  And there is another dreadful suspicion that tortures my mind.”

“A suspicion?”

“Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared; if I did not fear that you—­”

“Speak!” insisted Mme. Fauvel.  “Alas! misfortune has given me strength to bear all things.  There is nothing worse than has already happened.  I am ready to hear anything.”

Madeleine hesitated; she wished to enlighten her credulous aunt, and yet hesitated to distress her.

“I would like to be certain,” she said, “that some secret understanding between M. de Clameran and Raoul does not exist.  Do you not think they are acting a part agreed upon for the purpose of extorting money?”

Love is blind and deaf.  Mme. Fauvel would not remember the laughing eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of the pretended quarrel in her presence.  Infatuation had drowned suspicion.  She could not, she would not, believe in such hypocrisy.  Raoul plot against the mother?  Never!

“It is impossible,” she said, “the marquis is really indignant and distressed at his nephew’s mode of life, and he certainly would not countenance any disgraceful conduct.  As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling, and extravagant; but he has a good heart.  Prosperity has turned his head, but he loves me still.  Ah, if you could see and hear him, when I reproach him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds.  When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, and never again give me trouble, he means to keep his word; but perfidious friends entice him away, and he commits some piece of folly without thinking of the consequences.”