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“Our children are growing up. Your daughter … and my two children as well. Daniel’s over fourteen now. You know the terrible effects of bad examples, how contagious evil is. Things can’t go on like this any longer—I’m sure you agree. Soon I shan’t be the only one to watch him … and to suffer.” A note of pleading came into her voice. “Yes, give him back to us, Noémie.”
    “But, Thérèse, I assure you… . Why, you must be off your head!” The younger woman was recovering her self-composure, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes, and her lips were set. “Yes, you must be mad, Thérèse, to think of such a thing. It was silly of me to let you go on talking like that, but I couldn’t believe my ears. You’ve been dreaming—or else been listening to a lot of ridiculous gossip. Now I want you to explain.”
    Mme. de Fontanin gave her cousin a pensive, almost affectionate glance that seemed to say: “Poor stunted soul! Still, your heart is better than your way of living.” But then her eyes fell on the smoothly rounded shoulder, the soft voluptuous flesh that seemed fluttering, like a trapped dove, beneath the gauzy lace. And the picture that rose before her eyes was so realistic that she had to close them. A look of hatred, then of grief, flitted across her face. She felt her courage failing, and decided to put an end to the interview.
    “Well, perhaps I’m mistaken. But do, please, give me his address. No, not his address. I only ask you, let him know that I have need of him.”
    Noémie stiffened up. “Let him know? Do you think I know where he is?” She had gone very red. “Look here, Thérèse, I’ve had about enough of your nonsense. I admit Jerome comes to see me now and then. Why not? We make no secret of it. After all, we’re cousins. Why shouldn’t we?” Instinct gave her the words that would cut deepest. “He’ll be so tickled when I tell him that you came and made this absurd scene. I wish you could be here then!”
    Mme. de Fontanin drew back. “You’re talking like a prostitute.”
    “Very well then, do you want to hear the truth?” Noémie retorted. “When a woman’s husband leaves her, it’s her own fault. If Jerome had found in your company what he gets elsewhere, you wouldn’t have to go running after him, my dear.”
    Mme. de Fontanin could not help asking herself: Can it be true? Her nerves were at their breaking-point and she felt inclined to leave at once. But she could not face the prospect of being back at home again, without the address, without any means of getting in touch with Jerome. Her eyes softened once more.
    “Noémie, please forget what I said just now and listen to me. Jenny’s ill, she’s had a temperature for two days, and I’m alone. You are a mother, you must know what it is to watch at the bedside of a child who’s starting an illness. For three weeks now Jerome hasn’t been home, not once. Where is he? What’s he doing? He must be told his daughter’s ill; he must come back. Do tell him that.” Noémie shook her head, wholly unmoved by the appeal. “Oh, Noémie, it’s not possible you’ve grown so heartless! Listen, I’m going to tell you everything; it’s true that Jenny’s ill and I’m dreadfully worried about her; but that’s not the worst.” Her voice was humbler yet. “Daniel has left me; he’s run away.”
    “Run away?”
    “Yes. Inquiries will have to be made. I simply can’t remain alone at such a time—with a sick child on my hands. Surely you understand that? Noémie, do please tell him he must come back.”
    For a moment Mme. de Fontanin thought the younger woman was about to give way; there was a look of sympathy on her face. But then she turned abruptly away and cried, raising her arms to emphasize the words:
    “But, good heavens, what do you expect me to do about it? Didn’t I tell you just now I can’t help you in any way?” And when Mme. de Fontanin disgustedly refrained from answering, she