stien so respectful? Why did he not seek to meet
me? There again was another mockery! But what of that? in falling, I
have lost everything; I have no illusions left; I had tasted of all
things except the one fruit for which I have no longer teeth. Yes, I
found myself disenchanted with the world at the very moment when I was
forced to leave it. Providential, was it not? like all those strange
insensibilities which prepare us for death" (she made a gesture full
of pious unction). "All things served me then," she continued; "the
disasters of the monarchy and its ruin helped me to bury myself. My son
consoles me for much. Maternal love takes the place of all frustrated
feelings. The world is surprised at my retirement, but to me it has
brought peace. Ah! if you knew how happy the poor creature before you is
in this little place. In sacrificing all to my son I forget to think of
joys of which I am and ever must be ignorant. Yes, hope has flown, I
now fear everything; no doubt I should repulse the truest sentiment,
the purest and most veritable love, in memory of the deceptions and the
miseries of my life. It is all horrible, is it not? and yet, what I have
told you is the history of many women."

The last few words were said in a tone of easy pleasantry which recalled
the presence of the woman of the world. D'Arthez was dumbfounded. In his
eyes convicts sent to the galleys for murder, or aggravated robbery, or
for putting a wrong name to checks, were saints compared to the men and
women of society. This atrocious elegy, forged in the arsenal of lies,
and steeped in the waters of the Parisian Styx, had been poured into his
ears with the inimitable accent of truth. The grave author contemplated
for a moment that adorable woman lying back in her easy-chair, her two
hands pendant from its arms like dewdrops from a rose-leaf, overcome
by her own revelation, living over again the sorrows of her life as she
told them--in short an angel of melancholy.

"And judge," she cried, suddenly lifting herself with a spring and
raising her hand, while lightning flashed from eyes where twenty chaste
years shone--"judge of the impression the love of a man like Michel
must have made upon me. But by some irony of fate--or was it the hand of
God?--well, he died; died in saving the life of, whom do you suppose? of
Monsieur de Cadignan. Are you now surprised to find me thoughtful?"

This was the last drop; poor d'Arthez could bear no more. He fell