of
francs--and I promised to settle Melcourt-le-Danois on them into the
bargain, when I--if I ever should--But my niece wouldn't take
him--simply--would--not. Ah," she cried, in a strangled voice, "c'etait
trop fort!"

"But did she know you were--what shall I say?--negotiating?"

"She was in that stupid England. It wasn't a thing I could write to her
about. I meant it as a surprise. When all was settled I sent for
her--and told her. Oh, monsieur, vous n'avez pas d'idee! Queue scene!
Queue scene! J'ai failli en mourir." She wrung her clasped hands at the
recollection.

"That girl has an anger like a storm. Avec tous ses airs de reine et de
sainte--she was terrible. Never shall I forget it--jamais! jam-ais! au
grand jamais! Et puis," she added, with a fatalistic toss of her hands,
"c'etait fini. It was all over. Since then--nothing!"

She made a little dash as if to leave him, returning to utter what
seemed like an afterthought. "It would have made her. It would have made
_me_. We could have dictated to the Faubourg. We could have humiliated
them--like that." She stamped her foot. "It would have been a great
alliance--what I've been so much in need of. The Melcourt--well, they're
all very well--old noblesse de la Normandie, and all that--but
poor!--mais pauvres!--and as provincial as a cure de campagne. When I
married my poor husband--but we won't go into that--I've been a widow
since I was so high--ever since 1870--with my own way to make. If my
niece hadn't deserted me I could have made it. Now all that is
past--fini-ni-ni! The clan Berteuil has set the Faubourg against me.
They've the power, too. It's all so intricate, so silent, such wheels
within wheels--but it's done. They've never wanted me. They don't want
any of us--not for ourselves. It's the sou!--the sou!--the everlasting
sou! Noble or peasant--it makes no difference. But if my niece hadn't
abandoned me--"

"Why shouldn't you come home, madame?" Davenant suggested, touched by so
much that was tragic. "You wouldn't find any one after the sou there."

"They're all about me," she whispered--"the Melcourt. They're all over
the house. They come and settle on me, and I can't shake them off. They
suffocate me--waiting for the moment when--But I've made my will, and
some'll be disappointed. Oh, I shall leave them Melcourt-le-Danois. It's
mine. I bought it with my own money, after my husband's death, and
restored it when the Hamlet and Tecla paid so well. It sh