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Updated: May 6, 2025
You might love me again then, perhaps, and Fred and poor Madame d'Argy, who must feel so bitterly against me since her son was wounded, might forgive me. No one feels bitterly against the dead, and it is the same as being dead to be a Carmelite nun.
The wails of Hecuba were nothing to the lamentations of poor Madame d'Argy; the unreasonableness of her wrath and the exaggeration in her reproaches hindered even Jacqueline from feeling all the remorse she might otherwise have felt for her share in Fred's departure.
Madame d'Argy, indeed, came on certain days to take her to visit the tomb, on which the child read, as she prayed for the departed: MARIE JACQUELINE ADELAIDE DE VALTIER And such filial sentiment as she still retained, concerning the unknown being who had been her mother, was tinged by her association with this melancholy pilgrimage which she was expected to perform at certain intervals.
Calling a fiacre, Jacqueline, almost roughly, pushed the old woman into it, and gave the coachman the address of Madame d'Argy, having, in her excitement, first given him that of their old house in the Parc Monceau, so much was she possessed by the idea that this was a repetition of that dreadful day, when with Modeste, just as now, she went to meet an irreparable loss.
"Like that of good parents, such as we are," added M. de Nailles, ending her sentence with an expression of grateful emotion. For one moment the Baronne paled under this compliment. "What did you say to Madame d'Argy?" she hastened to ask. "I said we must give the young fellow's beard time to grow." "Yes, that was right. I prefer Monsieur de Cymier a hundred times over.
She was a genuine Frenchwoman of the old type; there are not many such left now. Ah!" continued Madame d'Argy, without any apparent connection with her subject, "Monsieur de Talbrun's mother, if he had one, would be truly happy to see him married to Giselle!"
She did not believe much of this, but, following her natural instinct, she assumed the dangerous task of consolation, until, as Madame d'Argy grew better, she discontinued her daily visits, and Fred, in his turn, took a habit of going over to Fresne without being invited, and spending there a good deal of his time. "Don't send me away. You who are always charitable," he said.
"He who makes himself the champion to defend a young girl's character," said Madame d'Argy, sententiously, "injures her as much as those who have spoken evil of her." "That is exactly what I think," said Giselle. "The self-constituted champion has given the evil rumor circulation." There was again a painful silence.
I can assure you that ever since yesterday, if not before, she has loved Monsieur d'Argy, who on his part for a long time a very long time has been in love with her." Giselle spoke eagerly, as if she forced herself to say the words that cost her pain. Her cheeks were flushed under her veil. The Abbe, who was keen-sighted, observed these signs.
The love or the suffering of those who can tell just how long they have suffered, or just how long they have been in love, is only moderate and reasonable. Madame d'Argy found the two lonely years she passed awaiting the return of her son, who was winning his promotion to the rank of ensign, so long, that it seemed to her as if they never would come to an end.
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