and consequently Madame found her
also an instrument of some consequence.

In her determination to overcome all obstacles, Madame even condescended
to apply to my wife, whose influence over Mademoiselle she was clever
enough not to undervalue.

"I want you to talk to Mademoiselle," she said. "She thinks a great
deal of you, and I want you to give her some good advice. You know what
society is, and you know that she ought to be proud of her advantages,
and not make a fool of herself. Many a girl would be glad enough of what
she has before her. She's got money, and she's got chances, and I
don't begrudge her anything. She can spend all she likes on clothes and
things, and I'll take her anywhere if she'll behave herself. They wear
me out--her and her father. It's her father that's ruined her, and her
living as she's done. Her father never knew anything, and he's made a
pet of her, and got her into his way of thinking. It's ridiculous how
little ambition they have, and she might marry as well as any girl.
There's a marquis that's quite in love with her at this moment, and
she's as afraid of him as death, and cries if I even mention him, though
he's a nice enough man, if he is a bit elderly. Now, I want you to
reason with her."

This Clelie told me afterward.

"And upon going away," she ended, "she turned round toward me, setting
her face into an indescribable expression of hardness and obstinacy.
'I want her to understand,' she said, 'that she's cut off forever from
anything that's happened before. There's the' Atlantic Ocean and many a
mile of land between her and North Carolina, and so she may as well give
that up.'"

Two or three days after this Mademoiselle came to our apartment in great
grief. She had left Madame in a violent ill-temper. They had received
invitations to a ball at which they were to meet the marquis. Madame had
been elated, and the discovery of Mademoiselle's misery and trepidation
had roused her indignation. There had been a painful scene, and
Mademoiselle had been overwhelmed as usual.

She knelt before the fire and wept despairingly.

"I'd rather die than go," she said. "I can't stand it. I can't get used
to it. The light, and the noise, and the talk, hurts me, and I don't
know what I am doing. And people stare at me, and I make mistakes, and
I'm not fit for it--and--and--I'd rather be dead fifty thousand times
than let that man come near me. I hate him, and I'm afraid of him, and I
wish I w