The analogy between her situation and that of Alba struck her very forcibly.

She experienced the sensation which Alba had so often experienced in connection with Fanny, sympathy with a sorrow so like her own.

She could not give her hand to Madame Steno after what she had discovered, nor could she speak to her otherwise than to order her from her house.

And to utter before Alba one single phrase, to make one single gesture which would arouse her suspicions, would be too implacable, too iniquitous a vengeance! She turned toward the door which led to her own room, bidding the servant ask his master to come thither.
She had devised a means of satisfying her just indignation without wounding her dear friend, who was not responsible for the fact that the two culprits had taken shelter behind her innocence.
Having entered the small, pretty boudoir which led into her bedroom, she seated herself at her desk, on which was a photograph of Madame Steno, in a group consisting of Boleslas, Alba, and herself.

The photograph smiled with a smile of superb insolence, which suddenly reawakened in the outraged woman her frenzy of rancor, interrupted or rather suspended for several moments by pity.