Mothers always blame themselves and everyone else for the sins of their sons.  The innocent friends come in for the principal share of censure, each mother’s son leading the other astray.

Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive her aunt.

“God grant that what you say may be true,” she said; “if so, this marriage will not be useless.  We will write to M. de Clameran to-night.”

“Why to-night, Madeleine?  We need not hurry so.  Let us wait a little; something else might happen to save us.”

These words, this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing, revealed Mme. Fauvel’s true character, and accounted for her troubles.  Timid, hesitating, easily swayed, she never could come to a firm decision, form a resolution, and abide by it, in spite of all arguments brought to bear against it.  In the hour of peril she would always shut her eyes and trust to chance for a relief which never came.  Never once did she think to ward off trouble by her own exertions.

Quite different was Madeleine’s character.  Beneath her gentle timidity lay a strong, self-reliant will.  Once decided upon what was right and just, nothing could change her.  If it was her duty to make a sacrifice, it was to be carried out to the letter; no hesitation and sighs for what might have been; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked straight forward without one look back.

“We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt,” she said, in a gentle, but firm tone.  “Believe me, the reality of misfortune is not as painful as its apprehension.  You cannot bear the shocks of sorrow, and delusive hopes of happiness, much longer.  Do you know what anxiety of mind has done to you?  Have you looked in the mirror during the last four months?”

She led her aunt up to the glass, and said: 

“Look at yourself.”

Mme. Fauvel was indeed a mere shadow of her former self.

She had reached the perfidious age when a woman’s beauty, like a full-blown rose, fades in a day.

Four months of trouble had made her an old woman.  Sorrow had stamped its fatal seal upon her brow.  Her fair, soft skin was wrinkled, her golden hair was streaked with silver, and her large, soft eyes had a painfully frightened look.

“Do you not agree with me,” continued Madeleine, pityingly, “that peace of mind is necessary to you?  Do you not see that you are a wreck of your former self?  It is a miracle that M. Fauvel has not noticed this sad change in you!”

Mme. Fauvel, who flattered herself that she had displayed wonderful dissimulation, shook her head.

“Alas, my poor aunt! you think you concealed your secret from all:  you may have blinded my uncle, but I suspected all along that something dreadful was breaking your heart.”

“You suspected what, Madeleine?  Not the truth?”

“No, I was afraid—­Oh, pardon an unjust suspicion, my dear aunt, but I was wicked enough to suppose——­”