in paying out
the change for a gold piece to one of the workwomen with whom he seemed
to be in consultation. The "handsome stranger" held in his hand a parcel
of patterns, which left no doubt as to his honorable profession.

Emilie felt an icy shudder, though no one perceived it. Thanks to the
good breeding of the best society, she completely concealed the rage in
her heart, and answered her sister-in-law with the words, "I knew it,"
with a fulness of intonation and inimitable decision which the most
famous actress of the time might have envied her. She went straight up
to the desk. Longueville looked up, put the patterns in his pocket
with distracting coolness, bowed to Mademoiselle de Fontaine, and came
forward, looking at her keenly.

"Mademoiselle," he said to the shopgirl, who followed him, looking very
much disturbed, "I will send to settle that account; my house deals
in that way. But here," he whispered into her ear, as he gave her a
thousand-franc note, "take this--it is between ourselves.--You will
forgive me, I trust, mademoiselle," he added, turning to Emilie. "You
will kindly excuse the tyranny of business matters."

"Indeed, monsieur, it seems to me that it is no concern of mine,"
replied Mademoiselle de Fontaine, looking at him with a bold expression
of sarcastic indifference which might have made any one believe that she
now saw him for the first time.

"Do you really mean it?" asked Maximilien in a broken voice.

Emilie turned her back upon him with amazing insolence. These words,
spoken in an undertone, had escaped the ears of her two sisters-in-law.
When, after buying the cape, the three ladies got into the carriage
again, Emilie, seated with her back to the horses, could not resist one
last comprehensive glance into the depths of the odious shop, where she
saw Maximilien standing with his arms folded, in the attitude of a man
superior to the disaster that has so suddenly fallen on him. Their eyes
met and flashed implacable looks. Each hoped to inflict a cruel wound
on the heart of a lover. In one instant they were as far apart as if one
had been in China and the other in Greenland.

Does not the breath of vanity wither everything? Mademoiselle de
Fontaine, a prey to the most violent struggle that can torture the heart
of a young girl, reaped the richest harvest of anguish that prejudice
and narrow-mindedness ever sowed in a human soul. Her face, but just now
fresh and velvety, was streaked with