The moral nature had such empire over that frail physical nature that
on the morrow Pierrette rose light and joyous as a lark, as radiant
and as gay. Such a change could not escape the vigilant eye of her
cousin Sylvie, who, this time, instead of scolding her, set about
watching her with the scrutiny of a magpie. "What reason is there for
such happiness?" was a thought of jealousy, not of tyranny. If the
colonel had not been in Sylvie's mind she would have said to Pierrette
as formerly, "Pierrette, you are very noise, and very regardless of
what you have often been told." But now the old maid resolved to spy
upon her as only old maids can spy. The day was still and gloomy, like
the weather that precedes a storm.
"You don't appear to be ill now, mademoiselle," said Sylvie at dinner.
"Didn't I tell you she put it all on to annoy us?" she cried,
addressing her brother, and not waiting for Pierrette's answer.
"On the contrary, cousin, I have a sort of fever--"
"Fever! what fever? You are as gay as a lark. Perhaps you have seen
some one again?"
Pierrette trembled and dropped her eyes on her plate.
"Tartufe!" cried Sylvie; "and only fourteen years old! what a nature!
Do you mean to come to a bad end?"
"I don't know what you mean," said Pierrette, raising her sweet and
luminous brown eyes to her cousin.
"This evening," said Sylvie, "you are to stay in the dining-room with
a candle, and do your sewing.
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