Mlle. Gilberte was soon far away; and Marius de Tregars remained motionless at the corner of the street, following her with his eyes through the darkness.
She was walking fast, staggering over the rough pavement. Leaving Marius, she fell back upon the earth from the height of her dreams.
The deceiving illusion had vanished, and, returned to the world of sad reality, she was seized with anxiety.
How long had she been out? She knew not, and found it impossible to reckon. But it was evidently getting late; for some of the shops were already closing.
Meantime, she had reached the house. Stepping back, and looking up, she saw that there was light in the parlor.
"Mother has returned," she thought, trembling with apprehension.
She hurried up, nevertheless; and, just as she reached the landing, Mme. Favoral opened the door, preparing to go down.
"At last you are restored to me!" exclaimed the poor mother, whose sinister apprehensions were revealed by that single exclamation. "I was going out to look for you at random, - in the streets, anywhere."
And, drawing her daughter within the parlor, she clasped her in her arms with convulsive tenderness, exclaiming, "Where were you? Where do you come from? Do you know that it is after nine o'clock?"
Such had been Mlle. Gilberte's state of mind during the whole of that evening, that she had not even thought of finding a pretext to justify her absence. Now it was too late. Besides, what explanation would have been plausible? Instead, therefore, of answering, "Why, dear mother," she said with a forced smile, "has it not happened to me twenty times to go out in the neighborhood?"
But Mme. Favoral's confiding credulity existed no longer.
"I have been blind, Gilberte," she interrupted; "but this time my eyes must open to evidence. There is in your life a mystery, something extraordinary, which I dare not try to guess."
Mlle. Gilberte drew herself up, and, looking her mother straight in the eyes, with her beautiful, clear glance, "Would you suspect me of something wrong, then?" she exclaimed.
Mme. Favoral stopped her with a gesture.
"A young girl who conceals something from her mother always does wrong," she uttered. "It is a long while since I have had for the first time the presentiment that you were hiding something from me.
But, when I questioned you, you succeeded in quieting my suspicions.
You have abused my confidence and my weakness."
This reproach was the most cruel that could be addressed to Mlle.
Gilberte. The blood rushed to her face, and, in a firm voice, "Well, yes," said she: "I have a secret."
"Dear me!"
"And, if I did not confide it to you, it is because it is also the secret of another. Yes, I confess it, I have been imprudent in the extreme; I have stepped beyond all the limits of propriety and social custom; I have exposed myself to the worst calumnies. But never, - I swear it, - never have I done any thing of which my conscience can reproach me, nothing that I have to blush for, nothing that I regret, nothing that I am not ready to do again to-tomorrow."
"I said nothing, 'tis true; but it was my duty. Alone I had to suffer the responsibility of my acts. Having alone freely engaged my future, I wished to bear alone the weight of my anxiety. I should never have forgiven myself for having added this new care to all your other sorrows."
Mme. Favoral stood dismayed. Big tears rolled down her withered cheeks.
"Don't you see, then," she stammered, "that all my past suffering is as nothing compared to what I endure to-day? Good heavens! what have I ever done to deserve so many trials? Am I to be spared none of the troubles of this world? And it is through my own daughter that I am the most cruelly stricken!"
This was more than Mlle. Gilberte could bear. Her heart was breaking at the sight of her mother's tears, that angel of meekness and resignation. Throwing her arms around her neck, and kissing her on the eyes, "Mother," she murmured, "adored mother, I beg of you do not weep thus! Speak to me! What do you wish me to do?"
Gently the poor woman drew back.
"Tell me the truth," she answered.
Was it not certain that this was the very, thing she would ask; in fact, the only thing she could ask? Ah! how much would the young girl have preferred one of her father's violent scenes, and brutalities which would have exalted her energy, instead of crushing it!
Attempting to gain time, "Well, yes," she answered," I'll tell you every thing, mother, but not now, to-morrow, later."
She was about to yield, however, when her father's arrival cut short their conversation.
The cashier of the Mutual Credit was quite lively that night. He was humming a tune, a thing which did not happen to him four times a year, and which was indicative of the most extreme satisfaction.
But he stopped short at the sight of the disturbed countenance of his wife and daughter.
"What is the matter?" he inquired.
"Nothing," hastily answered Mlle. Gilberte, - "nothing at all, father."
"Then you are crying for your amusement," he said. "Come, be candid for once, and confess that Maxence has been at his tricks again!
"You are mistaken, father: I swear it!
He asked no further questions, being in his nature not very curious, whether because family matters were of so little consequence to him, or because he had a vague idea that his general behavior deprived him of all right to their confidence.
"Very well, then," he said in a gruff tone, "let us all go to bed.
I have worked so hard to-day, that I am quite exhausted. People who pretend that business is dull make me laugh. Never has M. de Thaller been in the way of ****** so much money as now."
When he spoke, they obeyed. So that Mlle. Gilberte was thus going to have the whole night before her to resume possession of herself, to pass over in her mind the events of the evening, and deliberate coolly upon the decision she must come to; for, she could not doubt it, Mme. Favoral would, the very next day, renew her questions.