ted with d'Aiglemont; and now, at the first
sight of d'Aiglemont's wife, the young diplomatist saw at a glance a
disproportionate marriage, an incompatibility (to use the legal jargon)
so great that it was impossible that the Marquise should love her
husband. And yet--the Marquise d'Aiglemont's life was above reproach,
and for any observer the mystery about her was the more interesting on
this account. The first impulse of surprise over, Vandenesse cast
about for the best way of approaching Mme. d'Aiglemont. He would try a
commonplace piece of diplomacy, he thought; he would disconcert her by a
piece of clumsiness and see how she would receive it.

"Madame," he said, seating himself near her, "through a fortunate
indiscretion I have learned that, for some reason unknown to me, I have
had the good fortune to attract your notice. I owe you the more thanks
because I have never been so honored before. At the same time, you are
responsible for one of my faults, for I mean never to be modest again--"

"You will make a mistake, monsieur," she laughed; "vanity should be left
to those who have nothing else to recommend them."

The conversation thus opened ranged at large, in the usual way, over a
multitude of topics--art and literature, politics, men and things--till
insensibly they fell to talking of the eternal theme in France and all
the world over--love, sentiment, and women.

"We are bond-slaves."

"You are queens."

This was the gist and substance of all the more or less ingenious
discourse between Charles and the Marquise, as of all such
discourses--past, present, and to come. Allow a certain space of time,
and the two formulas shall begin to mean "Love me," and "I will love
you."

"Madame," Charles de Vandenesse exclaimed under his breath, "you have
made me bitterly regret that I am leaving Paris. In Italy I certainly
shall not pass hours in intellectual enjoyment such as this has been."

"Perhaps, monsieur, you will find happiness, and happiness is worth
more than all the brilliant things, true and false, that are said every
evening in Paris."

Before Charles took leave, he asked permission to pay a farewell call
on the Marquise d'Aiglemont, and very lucky did he feel himself when
the form of words in which he expressed himself for once was used in all
sincerity; and that night, and all day long on the morrow, he could not
put the thought of the Marquise out of his mind.

At times he wondered why she had sin