Already a comparison between Fred’s faithful affection and Gerard de Cymier’s desertion had come into her mind, but she had refused to entertain it, declaring resolutely to herself that she never should repent her refusal.  She was sore, she was angry with all men, she wished all were like Cymier or like Marien, that she might hate every one of them; she came to the conclusion in her heart of hearts that all of them, even the best, if put to the proof, would turn out selfish.  She liked to think so—­to believe in none of them.  Thus it happened that an unexpected visit from Fred’s mother, among those that she received in her first days of orphanhood, was particularly agreeable to her.

Madame d’Argy, on hearing of the death and of the ruin of M. de Nailles, was divided by two contradictory feelings.  She clearly saw the hand of Providence in what had happened:  her son was in the squadron on its way to attack Formosa; he was in peril from the climate, in peril from Chinese bullets, and assuredly those who had brought him into peril could not be punished too severely; on the other hand, the last mail from Tonquin had brought her one of those great joys which always incline us to be merciful.  Fred had so greatly distinguished himself in a series of fights upon the river Min that he had been offered his choice between the Cross of the Legion of Honor or promotion.  He told his mother now that he had quite recovered from a wound he had received which had brought him some glory, but which he assured her had done him no bodily harm, and he repeated to her what he would not tell her at first, some words of praise from Admiral Courbet of more value in his eyes than any reward.

Triumphant herself, and much moved by pity for Jacqueline, Madame d’Argy felt as if she must put an end to a rupture which could not be kept up when a great sorrow had fallen on her old friends, besides which she longed to tell every one, those who had been blind and ungrateful in particular, that Fred had proved himself a hero.  So Jacqueline and her stepmother saw her arrive as if nothing had ever come between them.  There were kisses and tears, and a torrent of kindly meant questions, affectionate explanations, and offers of service.  But Fred’s mother could not help showing her own pride and happiness to those in sorrow.  They congratulated her with sadness.  Madame d’Argy would have liked to think that the value of what she had lost was now made plain to Jacqueline.  And if it caused her one more pang—­what did it matter?  He and his mother had suffered too.  It was the turn of others.  God was just.  Resentment, and kindness, and a strange mixed feeling of forgiveness and revenge contended together in the really generous heart of Madame d’Argy, but that heart was still sore within her.  Pity, however, carried the day, and had it not been for the irritating coldness of “that little hard-hearted thing,” as she called Jacqueline, she would have entirely forgiven her.  She never suspected that the exaggerated reserve of manner that offended her was owing to Jacqueline’s dread (commendable in itself) of appearing to wish in her days of misfortune for the return of one she had rejected in the time of prosperity.