Sylvie’s severity to the child became at last the most refined cruelty, and aggravated the miserable state in which Pierrette lived. The poor little thing was constantly in a fever, and the pain in her head became intolerable. By the end of a week she displayed to the frequenters of the Rogrons’ house a face of suffering which must certainly have softened any less cruel egotism; but Doctor Néraud, advised perhaps by Vinet, did not call for more than a week. The Colonel, suspected by Sylvie, was afraid she might break off their marriage if he showed the smallest anxiety about Pierrette; Bathilde accounted for her indisposition by simple causes, in no way dangerous.
At last, one Sunday evening, when the drawing-room was full of company, Pierrette could not endure the pain; she fainted completely away; and the Colonel, who was the first to observe that she had lost consciousness, lifted her up and carried her on to a sofa.
“She did it on purpose,” said Sylvie, looking at Mademoiselle Habert and the other players.
“Your cousin is very ill, I assure you,” said the Colonel.
“She was very well in your arms,” retorted Sylvie, with a hideous smile.
“The Colonel is right,” said Madame de Chargeboeuf; “you ought to send for a doctor. This morning in church everyone was talking of Mademoiselle Lorrain’s state as they came out—it is obvious.”
“I am dying,” said Pierrette.
Desfondrilles called to Sylvie to unfasten the girl’s frock. Sylvie complied, saying, “It is all a sham!”
She undid the dress, and was going to loosen the stays. Then Pierrette found superhuman strength; she sat up, and exclaimed, “No, no; I will go to bed.”
Sylvie had touched her stays, and had felt the papers. She allowed Pierrette to escape, saying to everybody, “Well, do you think she is so very ill? It is all put on; you could never imagine the naughtiness of that child.”
She detained Vinet at the end of the evening; she was furious, she was bent on revenge; she was rough with the Colonel as he bid her good night. Gouraud shot a glance at Vinet that seemed to pierce him to the very bowels, and mark the spot for a bullet. Sylvie begged Vinet to remain. When they were alone, the old maid began:
“Never in my life, nor in all my days, will I marry the Colonel!”
“Now that you have made up your mind, I may speak. The Colonel is my friend; still, I am yours rather than his. Rogron has done me services I can never forget. I am as firm a friend as I am an implacable enemy. Certainly, when once I am in the Chamber you will see how I shall rise, and I will make Rogron a Receiver-General.—Well, swear to me never to repeat a word of our conversation!” Sylvie nodded assent. “In the first place, our gallant Colonel is an inveterate gambler.”
“Indeed!” said Sylvie.
“But for the difficulties this passion has got him into, he might perhaps have been a Marshal of France,” the lawyer went on. “So he might squander all your fortune. But he is a deep customer. Do not believe that married people have or have not children, and you know what will happen to you. No. If you wish to marry, wait till I am in the Chamber, and then you can marry old Desfondrilles, who will be president of the Court here. To revenge yourself, make your brother marry Mademoiselle de Chargeboeuf; I will undertake to get her consent; she will have two thousand francs a year, and you will be as nearly connected with the Chargeboeufs as I am. Take my word for it, the Chargeboeufs will call us cousins some day.”
“Gouraud is in love with Pierrette,” replied Sylvie.
“He is quite capable of it,” said Vinet; “and quite capable of marrying her after your death.”
“A pretty little scheme!” said she.
“I tell you he is as cunning as the devil. Make your brother marry, and announce that you intend to remain unmarried and leave your money to your nephews or nieces; you will thus hit Pierrette and Gouraud by the same blow, and you will see how foolish he will look.”
“To be sure,” cried the old maid; “I can catch them. She shall go into a shop, and will have nothing. She has not a penny. Let her do as we did, and work.”
Vinet having got his idea into Sylvie’s head, and knowing her obstinacy, left the house. The old maid ended by thinking that the plan was her own.
Vinet found the Colonel outside, smoking a cigar while he waited for him.
“Hold hard!” said the Colonel. “You have pulled me to pieces, but there are stones enough in the ruins to bury you.”
“Colonel!”
“There is no ‘Colonel’ in the case. I am going to lead you a dance. In the first place, you will never be deputy—”
“Colonel!”
“I can command ten votes, and the election depends on—”
“Colonel, just listen to me. Is there no one in the world but old Sylvie? I have just been trying to clear you. You are accused and proved guilty of writing to Pierrette; she has seen you coming out of your house at midnight to stand below the girl’s window—”
“Well imagined!”
“She means her brother to marry Bathilde, and will keep her fortune for their children.”
“Will Rogron have any?”
“Yes,” said Vinet. “But I promise to find you a young
