arrant such a belief on her part. For
M. de Vandenesse that evening, the Marquise was, as she had always been,
simple and friendly, sincere in her sorrow, glad to have a friend, proud
to find a nature responsive to her own--nothing more. It had not entered
her mind that a woman could yield twice; she had known love--love lay
bleeding still in the depths of her heart, but she did not imagine that
bliss could bring her its rapture twice, for she believed not merely
in the intellect, but in the soul; and for her love was no simple
attraction; it drew her with all noble attractions.

In a moment Charles became a young man again, enthralled by the splendor
of a nature so lofty. He wished for a fuller initiation into the secret
history of a life blighted rather by fate than by her own fault. Mme.
d'Aiglemont heard him ask the cause of the overwhelming sorrow which had
blended all the harmonies of sadness with her beauty; she gave him one
glance, but that searching look was like a seal set upon some solemn
compact.

"Ask no more such questions of me," she said. "Four years ago, on
this very day, the man who loved me, for whom I would have given up
everything, even my own self-respect, died, and died to save my name.
That love was still young and pure and full of illusions when it came to
an end. Before I gave way to passion--and never was a woman so urged by
fate--I had been drawn into the mistake that ruins many a girl's life,
a marriage with a man whose agreeable manners concealed his emptiness.
Marriage plucked my hopes away one by one. And now, to-day, I have
forfeited happiness through marriage, as well as the happiness styled
criminal, and I have known no happiness. Nothing is left to me. If I
could not die, at least I ought to be faithful to my memories."

No tears came with the words. Her eyes fell, and there was a slight
twisting of the fingers interclasped, according to her wont. It was
simply said, but in her voice there was a note of despair, deep as
her love seemed to have been, which left Charles without a hope. The
dreadful story of a life told in three sentences, with that twisting of
the fingers for all comment, the might of anguish in a fragile woman,
the dark depths masked by a fair face, the tears of four years of
mourning fascinated Vandenesse; he sat silent and diminished in the
presence of her woman's greatness and nobleness, seeing not the physical
beauty so exquisite, so perfectly complete, but the s