nding over her
embroidery with most exquisite grace, Madame de Bergenheim was slowly
dying. A wasting fever was circulating like poison through her veins.
She felt that an unheard-of sorrow was hanging over her head, and that
no effort of hers could prevent it.

At this very moment, either the man she belonged to or the one she loved
was about to die; whatever her widowhood might be, she felt that
her mourning would be brief; young, beautiful, surrounded by all the
privileges of rank and fortune, life was closing around her, and left
but one pathway open, which was full of blood; she would have to bathe
her feet in it in order to pass through.

"What is that smoke above the Montigny rock?" Aline exclaimed with
surprise; "it looks as if there were a fire in the woods."

Madame de Bergenheim raised her eyes, shivered from head to foot as she
saw the stream of smoke which stood out against the horizon, and then
let her head droop upon her breast. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stopped
her reading as she heard Aline's remark, and turned slowly to look out
of the window.

"That's some of the shepherds' work," said she; "they have built a fire
in the bushes at the risk of setting fire to the whole woods. Really, I
do not know what to think of your husband, Clemence; he takes everybody
away to the hunt with him, and does not leave a soul here to prevent his
dwelling from being devastated."

Clemence made no reply, and her sister-in-law, who expected she would
say something to keep the conversation alive, returned and seated
herself at the piano with a pouting air.

"Thanks, that will do for to-day!" exclaimed the old lady at the first
notes; "you have split our heads long enough. You would do better to
study your history of France."

Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece
of advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of
a pupil in disgrace. A deep silence reigned. Madame de Bergenheim
had dropped her embroidery without noticing it. From time to time she
trembled as if a chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch
the smoke ascending above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some
imaginary sound.

"Truly," said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal
down in her lap, "good morals have made great progress since the July
revolution. Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier
with her lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who