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"Your sister, Moina," said Mme. d'Aiglemont, bursting into tears when she reached her room, "your sister meant no doubt to tell you that a girl will never find happiness in a romantic life, in living as nobody else does, and, above all things, far away from her mother." It was one of the earliest June days of the year 1844.
And now, grown tired of evil forebodings, his fancy was tracing out for him the most delicious pictures of past happiness. In that far-off brown line of land he seemed to see his wife and children. He sat in his place by the fireside; they were crowding about him; he felt their caresses. Moina had grown to be a young girl; she was beautiful, and tall, and striking.
"I am to be lectured about Alfred " "Moina," the Marquise said gravely, as she struggled with her tears, "you would not guess at once if you did not feel " "What?" asked Moina, almost haughtily. "Why, really, mother " Mme. d'Aiglemont summoned up all her strength. "Moina," she said, "you must attend carefully to this that I ought to tell you "
That signal, doubtless, roused Moina from her grief, for she flung open the doors and stood before them. No words could have spoken more plainly than that disheveled figure looking out with haggard eyes upon the assembled family. Before that living picture of Remorse the rest were dumb.
The elderly lady stirring abroad at that hour was the Marquise d'Aiglemont, the mother of Mme. de Saint-Hereen, to whom the great house belonged. The Marquise had made over the mansion and almost her whole fortune to her daughter, reserving only an annuity for herself. The Comtesse Moina de Saint-Hereen was Mme. d'Aiglemont's youngest child.
Go out of the room, all of you!" cried Mme. d'Aiglemont, her shrill tones drowning Helene's voice. "For pity's sake," she continued, "let us not begin these miserable quarrels again now " "I will be silent," Helene answered with a preternatural effort. "I am a mother; I know that Moina ought not... Where is my child?" Moina came back, impelled by curiosity.
"With a husband, my dear innocent, we live, as it were, in our own life; but to love, is to live in the life of another," said the Marquise d'Espard. "A lover is forbidden fruit, and that to me, says all!" cried the pretty Moina de Saint-Heren, laughing.
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