had degraded her in her own eyes?

What right had that man to treat her as his plaything? Her pride and
all her womanly instincts rose up in rebellion. Her nerves had been so
shaken that she sobbed behind her veil all the way to her destination.
Paris, when she reached it, offered her almost nothing that could
comfort or amuse her. That city is always empty and dull in August, more
so than at any other season. Even the poor occupation of teaching her
little class of music pupils had been taken away by the holidays. Her
sole resource was in Modeste's society. Modeste--who, by the way, had
never been ill, and who suffered from nothing but old age--was delighted
to receive her dear young lady in her little room far up under the
roof, where, though quite infirm, she lived comfortably, on her savings.
Jacqueline, sitting beside her as she sewed, was soothed by her old
nursery tales, or by anecdotes of former days. Her own relatives were
often the old woman's theme. She knew the history of Jacqueline's family
from beginning to end; but, wherever her story began, it invariably
wound up with:

"If only your poor papa had not made away with all your money!"

And Jacqueline always answered:

"He was quite at liberty to do what he pleased with what belonged to
him."

"Belonged to him! Yes, but what belonged to you? And how does it happen
that your stepmother seems so well off? Why doesn't some family council
interfere? My little pet, to think of your having to work for your
living. It's enough to kill me!"

"Bah! Modeste, there are worse things than being poor."

"Maybe so," answered the old nurse, doubtfully, "but when one has money
troubles along with the rest, the money troubles make other things
harder to bear; whereas, if you have money enough you can bear anything,
and you would have had enough, after all, if you had married Monsieur
Fred."

At which point Jacqueline insisted that Modeste should be silent, and
answered, resolutely: "I mean never to marry at all."

To this Modeste made answer: "That's another of your notions. The worst
husband is always better than none; and I know, for I never married."

"That's why you talk such nonsense, my poor dear Modeste! You know
nothing about it."

One day, after one of these visits to the only friend, as she believed,
who remained to her in the world--for her intimacy with Giselle was
spoiled forever--she saw, as she walked with a heavy heart toward her
convent in a d