life? What would I now be had you not taken pity on me? A
factory girl in my native village. You warmly welcomed the poor orphan,
and became a mother to her. Is it not to your husband that I owe the
fortune which excites the cupidity of this wicked Clameran? Are not Abel
and Lucien brothers to me? And now, when the happiness of all who have
been loving and generous to me is at stake, do you suppose I would
hesitate? No. I will become the wife of Clameran."

Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Mme. Fauvel and her
niece, as to which should be the victim; only the more sublime, because
each offered her life to the other, not from any sudden impulse, but
deliberately and willingly.

But Madeleine carried the day, fired as she was by that holy enthusiasm
of sacrifice which is the sustaining element of martyrs.

"I am responsible to none but myself," said she, well knowing this to be
the most vulnerable point she could attack; "whilst you, dear aunt, are
accountable to your husband and children. Think of the pain and sorrow
of M. Fauvel if he should learn the truth; it would kill him."

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