Suddenly the bandage fell from the young girl's eyes; comparing the two with the natural instinct of a woman beloved which never goes astray, she perceived that Robert of Cabane loved her for his own sake, while Bertrand of Artois would give his life to make her happy.

A light fell upon her past: she mentally recalled the circumstances that preceded and accompanied her earliest love; and a shudder went through her at the thought that she had been sacrificed to a cowardly seducer by the very woman she had loved most in the world, whom she had called by the name of mother.
Joan drew back into herself, and wept bitterly.

Wounded by a single blow in all her affections, at first her grief absorbed her; then, roused to sudden anger, she proudly raised her head, for now her love was changed to scorn.

Robert, amazed at her cold and haughty reception of him, following on so great a love, was stung by jealousy and wounded pride.
He broke out into bitter reproach and violent recrimination, and, letting fall the mask, once for all lost his place in Joan's heart.
His mother at last saw that it was time to interfere: she rebuked her son, accusing him of upsetting all her plans by his clumsiness.
"As you have failed to conquer her by love," she said, "you must now subdue her by fear.

The secret of her honour is in our hands, and she will never dare to rebel.