"Come, come to my arms as you used to do when you were little and were suffering.

Place your head thereon my heart and let your tears flow.

I see they are choking you." Jeanne could no longer resist, and falling on her knees beside Madame Desvarennes, she buried her face in the silky and scented folds of her dress like a frightened bird that flies to the nest and hides itself under the wings of its mother.
This great and hopeless grief was to the mistress a certain proof that Cayrol was right.

Jeanne had loved and still loved another man than her husband.

But why had she not said anything, and why had she allowed herself to be married to the banker?
She had resisted, she remembered now.