Clemence made no reply, and her sister-in-law, who expected she would say
something to keep the conversation alive, returned and seated herself at
the piano with a pouting air.

"Thanks, that will do for to-day!" exclaimed the old lady at the first
notes; "you have split our heads long enough. You would do better to
study your history of France."

Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece of
advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of a pupil
in disgrace. A deep silence reigned. Madame de Bergenheim had dropped
her embroidery without noticing it. From time to time she trembled as if
a chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch the smoke
ascending above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some imaginary
sound.

"Truly," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal down in
her lap, "good morals have made great progress since the July revolution.
Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier with her
lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who poisons her husband and
kills herself afterward. If I were superstitious, I should say that the
world was coming to an end. What do you think of such atrocious doings,
my dear?"

Clemence raised her head with an effort, and answered, in a gloomy voice:

"You must pardon her, since she is dead."

"You are very indulgent," replied the old aunt; "such creatures ought to
be burned alive, like the Brinvilliers."