One could hear Rosemonde laughing as she went off below, while the General began to tell Madame Fonsegue another story as they descended the stairs together.

However, at the moment when the mother and daughter at last fancied themselves alone once more, other voices reached their ears, those of Duvillard and Fonsegue, who were still near at hand.
The Baron from his room might well overhear the dispute.
Eve felt that she ought to have gone off.

But she had lacked the strength to do so; it had been a sheer impossibility for her after those words which had smote her like a buffet amidst her distress at the thought of losing her lover.
"Gerard cannot marry you," she said; "he does not love you." "He does." "You fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some kindness to you, on seeing others pay you such little attention.

But he does not love you." "He does.

He loves me first because I'm not such a fool as many others are, and particularly because I'm young." This was a fresh wound for the Baroness; one inflicted with mocking cruelty in which rang out all the daughter's triumphant delight at seeing her mother's beauty at last ripening and waning.