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poor boy had suffered so much that it was her duty to console him, and atone for her past neglect.

      She soon discovered that he was jealous and envious of his two brothers—for, after all, they were his brothers—Abel and Lucien.

      “You never refuse them anything,” he would resentfully say: “they were fortunate enough to enter life by the golden gate. Their every wish is gratified; they enjoy wealth, position, home affection, and have a splendid future awaiting them.”

      “But what is lacking to your happiness, my son? Have you not everything that money can give? and are you not first in my affections?” asked his distressed mother.

      “What do I want? Apparently nothing, in reality everything. Do I possess anything legitimately? What right have I to your affection, to the comforts and luxuries you heap upon me, to the name I bear? Is not my life an extortion, my very birth a fraud?”

      When Raoul talked in this strain, she would weep, and overwhelm him with caresses and gifts, until she imagined that every jealous thought was vanished from his mind.

      As spring approached, she told Raoul she designed him to spend the summer in the country, near her villa at St. Germain. She wanted to have him with her all the time, and this was the only way of gratifying her wish. She was surprised to find her proposal readily acquiesced in. In a few days he told her he had rented a little house at Vesinet, and intended having his furniture moved into it.

      “Then, just think, dear mother, what a happy summer we will spend together!” he said, with beaming eyes.

      She was delighted for many reasons, one of which was that the expenses of the prodigal son would necessarily be lessened. Anxiety as to the exhausted state of her finances made her bold enough to chide him at the dinner-table one day for having lost two thousand francs at the races that morning.

      “You are severe, my dear,” said M. Fauvel with the carelessness of a rich man, who considered this sum a mere trifle. “Mamma Lagors won’t object to footing his bills; mammas are created for the special purpose of paying bills.”

      And, not observing that his wife had turned pale at these jocular words, he turned to Raoul, and added:

      “Don’t disturb yourself about a small sum like this, my boy; when you want money, come to me.”

      What could Mme. Fauvel say? Had she not followed Clameran’s orders, and told her husband that Raoul was wealthy? She could not go now and tell him that he would never recover any money which he lent to a penniless spendthrift.

      Why had she been made to tell this unnecessary lie?

      She suspected the snare laid for her; but now it was too late to escape it: struggles would only more deeply entangle her in its meshes.

      The banker’s offer was soon accepted. That same week Raoul went to his uncle’s bank, and boldly borrowed ten thousand francs.

      When Mme. Fauvel heard of this piece of audacity, she wrung her hands in despair.

      “What can he want with so much money?” she moaned to herself: “what wicked extravagance is it for?” For some time Clameran had kept away from Mme. Fauvel’s house. She decided to write and ask him to come and advise her as to what steps should be taken to check Raoul.

      She hoped that this energetic, determined man, who was so fully awake to his duties as a guardian and an uncle, would make Raoul listen to reason, and instantly refund the borrowed money.

      When Clameran heard what his graceless nephew had done, his surprise and anger were unbounded. He expressed so much indignation against Raoul, that Mme. Fauvel was frightened at the storm she had raised, and began to make excuses for her son.

      While they were discussing the matter, Raoul came in, and a violent altercation ensued between him and Clameran.

      But the suspicions of Mme. Fauvel were aroused; she watched them, and it seemed to her—could it be possible—that their anger was feigned; that, although they abused and even threatened each other in the bitterest language, their eyes twinkled with amusement.

      She dared not breathe her doubts; but, like a subtle poison which disorganizes everything with which it comes in contact, this new suspicion filled her thoughts, and added to her already intolerable sufferings.

      Yet she never once thought of blaming Raoul; nor for a moment did she feel displeased with her idolized son. She accused the marquis of taking advantage of the youthful weakness and inexperience of his nephew.

      She knew that she would have to suffer insolence and extortion from this man who had her completely in his power; but she could not imagine what object he now had in view, for she plainly saw that he was aiming at something more than his nephew’s success in life. He constantly concealed some plan to benefit himself at her expense; but assuredly her darling Raoul could not be an accomplice in any plot to harass her.

      Clameran himself soon cleared her mind of all doubts.

      One day, after complaining more bitterly than usual of Raoul, and proving to Mme. Fauvel that it was impossible for this state of affairs to continue much longer, and a catastrophe was inevitable, he would up by saying there was one means of salvation left.

      This was that he, Clameran, must marry Madeleine!

      Mme. Fauvel was prepared for almost any base proposal save this one. She knew that his cupidity and insolence stopped at nothing, but never did she imagine he would have the wild presumption to aspire to Madeleine’s hand.

      If she had renounced all hope of happiness for herself, if she consented to the sacrifice of her own peace of mind, it was because she thus hoped to insure the undisturbed felicity of her household, of her husband, whom she had sinned against.

      This unexpected declaration shocked her, and for a moment she was speechless.

      “Do you suppose for an instant, monsieur,” she indignantly exclaimed, “that I will consent to any such disgraceful project? Sacrifice Madeleine, and to you!”

      “I certainly do suppose so, madame; in fact, I am certain of it,” he answered with cool insolence.

      “What sort of a woman do you think I am, monsieur? Alas, I am to eternally suffer for a fault committed twenty years ago; have I not already been more than adequately punished? And does it become you to be constantly reproaching me with my long-past imprudence? You have no right to be thus harassing me, till I dare not say my life is my own! Your power is at an end, and God only knows how deeply I regret having been insane enough to yield to its base sway! So long as I alone was to be the tool, you found me weak and timid; but, now that you seek the ruin of those I love, I rebel against your usurped authority. I have still a little conscience left, and nothing under heaven will force me to sacrifice my gentle, pure-hearted Madeleine!”

      “May I inquire, madame, why you regard Mlle. Madeleine’s becoming the Marchioness of Clameran as a disgrace and a sacrifice?”

      “My niece chose, of her own free will, a husband whom she will shortly marry. She loves M. Prosper Bertomy.”

      The marquis disdainfully shrugged his shoulders.

      “A school-girl love-affair,” said he; “she will forget all about it, if you wish her to do so.”

      “I do not wish it. I wish her to marry him.”

      “Listen to me,” he replied, in the low, suppressed tone of a man trying to control himself: “let us not waste time in these idle discussions. Hitherto you have always commenced by protesting against my proposed plans, and in the end acknowledge the good sense and justness of my arguments; now, for once why not yield without going through with the customary preliminaries? I ask it as a favor.”

      “Never,” said Mme. Fauvel, “never will I yield.”

      Clameran paid no attention to this interruption, but went on:

      “I insist upon this marriage, mainly on your account, although it will enable me to re-establish my own affairs, as well as yours and

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