The child spoke of him simply as “our friend.” The servants announced him as “M. le Comte,” but among themselves they called him “the old gentleman.”

The old gentleman was very rich, for madame spared nothing, and there was an enormous expenditure going on constantly in the house. This was managed by Mademoiselle Constant, Ida’s waiting-maid. It was this woman who gave her mistress the addresses of the tradespeople, who guided her inexperience through the mazes of life in Paris; for Ida’s pet dream and hope was to be taken for a woman of irreproachable character, and of the highest fashion.

Thus it will be seen into what state of mind the reception of Father O——— had thrown her, and in what a rage she left his presence. An elegant coupι awaited her at the door of the Institution. She threw herself into it with her child, retaining only sufficient self-command to say “home,” in so loud a voice that she was heard by a group of priests who were talking together, and who quickly dispersed before this whirlwind of furs and curled hair. In fact, as soon as the carriage-door was closed, the unhappy woman sank into a corner, not in her usual coquettish position, but overwhelmed and in tears, stifling her sobs in the quilted cushions.

What a blow! The priest had refused to take her child, and at the first glance had discovered the humiliating truth that she believed to have thoroughly disguised under the luxurious surroundings of a woman of the world and of an irreproachable mother.

Her wounded pride recalled with renewed flushes of shame the keen eyes of the good father. She recalled all her falsehood, all her folly, and remembered his incredulous smile at almost her first words.

Silent and motionless in the other corner of the carriage sat Jack, looking sadly at his mother, unable to comprehend her despair. He vaguely conceived himself to be in fault, the dear little fellow, and yet was secretly glad that he had not been left at the school.

For a fortnight he had heard of it night and day; his mother had extorted a promise from him not to weep; his trunk was packed, and all was ready, and the child’s heart was full of trouble; and now at the last moment he was reprieved.

If his mother had not been in so much trouble now, he would have thanked her; how happy would he have been curled up at her side, under her furs, in the little coupι in which they had had so many happy hours together—hours which were now to be repeated. And Jack thought of the afternoons in the Bois, of the long drives through the gay city of Paris—a city so new to both of them, and full of excitement and interest. A monument, perhaps, or even a mere street incident, delighted them.

“Look, Jack—”

“Look, mamma—”

They were two children together, and together they peered from the window,—the child’s head with its golden curls close to the mother’s face tightly veiled in black lace.

A despairing cry from Madame de Barancy aroused the boy from all these sweet recollections. “Mon dieu!” she cried, wringing her hands, “what have I done to be so wretched?”

This exclamation naturally elicited no response, and little Jack, not knowing what to say, or how to console her, timidly caressed her hand, even at last kissing it with the fervor of a lover.

She started and looked wildly at him.

“Ah! cruel, cruel child, what harm you have done me in this world!”

Jack turned pale. “I? What have I done?”

He loved but one person on the face of the earth, his mother. He thought her absolutely perfect; and without knowing it, he had injured her in some mysterious way. The poor child was now overwhelmed with despair also, but remained utterly silent, as if the noisy demonstrations of his mother had shocked him, and made him ashamed of any manifestations on his own part. He was seized with a sort of nervous spasm. His mother took him in her arms. “No, no, dear child, I was only in jest; be sensible, dear. What! must I rock my long-legged boy as if he were a baby? No, little Jack, you never did me any harm. It is I who did wrong. Come, do not weep any more. See, I am not crying.”

And the strange creature, forgetful of her recent grief, laughed gayly, that Jack too might laugh. It was one of the privileges of this inconsequent nature never to retain impressions for any length of time. Singularly enough, too, the tears she had just shed only seemed to add new freshness and brilliancy to her youthful beauty, as a sudden shower upon a dove’s plumage seems to bring out new lustre without penetrating below the surface.

“Where are we now?” said she, suddenly dropping the window that was covered with mist. “At the Madeleine. How quickly we have come! We must stop somewhere; at the pastry-cook’s, I think. Dry your eyes, little one, we will buy some meringues.”

They alighted at the fashionable confectioner’s, where there was a great crowd. Rich furs and rustling silks crushed each other; and women’s faces with veils half lifted were reflected in the surrounding mirrors which were set in gilt frames and cream-colored panels; glittering glass, and a variety of cakes and dainties delighted the spectators. Madame de Barancy and her child were much looked at. This charmed her, and this small success following upon the mortification of the previous hour, gave her an appetite.