h are called to-day the follies of Madame de
Maufrigneuse--things which I can never explain, for none but my son and
God have understood me."

These words, breathed into the ear of the listener, in tones inaudible
to the other guests, and with accents worthy of the cleverest actress,
were calculated to reach the heart; and they did reach that of d'Arthez.
There was no question of himself in the matter; this woman was seeking
to rehabilitate herself in favor of the dead. She had been calumniated;
and she evidently wanted to know if anything had tarnished her in the
eyes of him who had loved her; had he died with all his illusions?

"Michel," replied d'Arthez, "was one of those men who love absolutely,
and who, if they choose ill, can suffer without renouncing the woman
they have once elected."

"Was I loved thus?" she said, with an air of exalted beatitude.

"Yes, madame."

"I made his happiness?"

"For four years."

"A woman never hears of such a thing without a sentiment of proud
satisfaction," she said, turning her sweet and noble face to d'Arthez
with a movement full of modest confusion.

One of the most skilful manoeuvres of these actresses is to veil their
manner when words are too expressive, and speak with their eyes when
language is restrained. These clever discords, slipped into the music of
their love, be it false or true, produce irresistible attractions.

"Is it not," she said, lowering her voice and her eyes, after feeling
well assured they had produced her effect,--"is it not fulfilling one's
destiny to have rendered a great man happy?"

"Did he not write that to you?"

"Yes; but I wanted to be sure, quite sure; for, believe me, monsieur, in
putting me so high he was not mistaken."

Women know how to give a peculiar sacredness to their words; they
communicate something vibrant to them, which extends the meaning
of their ideas, and gives them depth; though later their fascinated
listener may not remember precisely what they said, their end has been
completely attained,--which is the object of all eloquence. The princess
might at that moment have been wearing the diadem of France, and her
brow could not have seemed more imposing than it was beneath that crown
of golden hair, braided like a coronet, and adorned with heather. She
was simple and calm; nothing betrayed a sense of any necessity to appear
so, nor any desire to seem grand or loving. D'Arthez, the solitary
toiler, to whom the ways of