In such a case, how could she exist? She would be
compelled to spend her last years in the same poverty that had
made her youth so wretched. She saw herself--ah! what a frightful
misfortune--turfed out of her princely home, and reduced to
furnished apartments rented for five hundred francs a year!
Mademoiselle Marguerite was no less startled and horror-stricken
than Madame Trigault, and she stood rooted to the spot, exactly
where the baron had left her. Silent and motionless, they
confronted each other for a moment which seemed a century to both
of them. The resemblance--which had astonished Pascal could not
fail to strike them, for it was still more noticeable now that
they stood face to face. But anything was preferable to this
torturing suspense, and so, summoning all her courage, the
baroness broke the silence by saying: "You are the daughter of the
Count de Chalusse?"
"I think so, but I have no proofs of it."
"And--your mother?"
"I don't know her; madame, and I have no desire to know her."
Disconcerted by this brief but implacable reply, Madame Trigault
hung her head.
"What could I have to say to my mother?" continued Marguerite.
"That I hate her? My courage would fail me to do so. And yet, how
can I think without bitterness of the woman who, after abandoning
me herself, endeavored to deprive me of my father's love and
protection? I could have forgiven anything but that.
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