Her mother bent over her and kissed her several times. The child felt as
though she would die while submitting to these caresses.

This one hour, with its cruel enlightenment, sufficed to destroy
Jeanne's joy in life for ever. At the same time it filled her mind with
impure thoughts that haunted her night and day. She matured
precociously in the atmosphere of her own despair.

There was no one in whom she could confide; alone she bore the weight of
a double secret, either of which was enough to crush her youth.

She could not bear to look her mother in the face. With her father, too,
she felt ill at ease, as though she had in some way wronged him.
Everything was soiled for her. She had but one desire; to get away from
home.

About two years later her mother was seized with fatal illness. Jeanne
could not bring herself to show her any tenderness. The piteous glance
of the dying woman followed all her comings and goings, but she
pretended not to see it. Once, when her father was out of the room, her
mother called Jeanne to the bedside:

"You know?" she asked.

Jeanne only nodded her head in reply.

"Child, I am dying, forgive me."

But Jeanne moved away from the bed without answering the appeal.