all mean? To whom were these
words of love addressed? She read on, finding in every letter the same
distracted phrases, the same assignations, the same cautions, and, at
the end, always the five words: "Above all, burn this letter." At last
she came to an ordinary note, merely accepting an invitation to dinner;
it was signed "Paul d'Ennemare." Why, that was the man of whom the baron
still spoke as "Poor old Paul," and whose wife had been the baroness's
dearest friend!

Then into Jeanne's mind came a suspicion which at once changed to a
certainty--he had been her mother's lover! With a sudden gesture of
loathing, she threw from her all these odious letters, as she would have
shaken off some venomous reptile, and, running to the window, she wept
bitterly. All her strength seemed to have left her; she sank on the
ground, and, hiding her face in the curtains to stifle her moans, she
sobbed in an agony of despair. She would have crouched there the whole
night if the sound of someone moving in the next room had not made her
start to her feet. Perhaps it was her father! And all these letters were
lying on the bed and on the floor! He had only to come in and open one,
and he would know all!

She seized all the old, yellow papers--her grandparents' epistles, the
love letters, those she had not unfolded, those that were still lying in
the drawer--and threw them all into the fireplace. Then she took one of
the candles which were burning on the little table, and set fire to this
heap of paper. A bright flame sprang up at once, lighting up the room,
the bed and the corpse with a bright, flickering light, and casting on
the white bed-curtain a dark, trembling shadow of the rigid face and
huge body.

When there was nothing left but a heap of ashes in the bottom of the
grate, Jeanne went and sat by the window, as though now she dare not sit
by the corpse. The tears streamed from her eyes, and, hiding her face
in her hands, she moaned out in heartbroken tones: "Oh, poor mamma! Poor
mamma!"

Then a terrible thought came to her: Suppose her mother, by some strange
chance, was not dead; suppose she was only in a trance-like sleep and
should suddenly rise and speak! Would not the knowledge of this horrible
secret lessen her, Jeanne's, love for her mother? Should she be able to
kiss her with the same respect, and regard her with the same esteem as
before? No! She knew it would be impossible; and the thought almost
broke her heart.

T