pursued even to matters of toilet, in which a woman loses her
self-respect and dignity. These fatal investigations, concealed in the
depths of her heart, turn sour and rot the delicate roots from which
should spring to bloom the azure flowers of sacred confidence, the
golden petals of the One only love, with all the perfumes of memory.

One day Calyste looked about him discontentedly; he had stayed at home!
Sabine made herself caressing and humble, gay and sparkling.

"You are vexed with me, Calyste; am I not a good wife? What is there
here that displeases you?" she asked.

"These rooms are so cold and bare," he replied; "you don't understand
arranging things."

"Tell me what is wanting."

"Flowers."

"Ah!" she thought to herself, "Madame de Rochefide likes flowers."

Two days later, the rooms of the hotel du Guenic had assumed another
aspect. No one in Paris could flatter himself to have more exquisite
flowers than those that now adorned them.

Some time later Calyste, one evening after dinner, complained of the
cold. He twisted about in his chair, declaring there was a draught, and
seemed to be looking for something. Sabine could not at first imagine
what this new fancy signified, she, whose house possessed a calorifere
which heated the staircases, antechambers, and passages. At last,
after three days' meditation, she came to the conclusion that her rival
probably sat surrounded by a screen to obtain the half-lights favorable
to faded faces; so Sabine had a screen, but hers was of glass and of
Israelitish splendor.

"From what quarter will the next storm come?" she said to herself.

These indirect comparisons with his mistress were not yet at an end.
When Calyste dined at home he ate his dinner in a way to drive Sabine
frantic; he would motion to the servants to take away his plates after
pecking at two or three mouthfuls.

"Wasn't it good?" Sabine would ask, in despair at seeing all the pains
she had taken in conference with her cook thrown away.

"I don't say that, my angel," replied Calyste, without anger; "I am not
hungry, that is all."

A woman consumed by a legitimate passion, who struggles thus, falls at
last into a fury of desire to get the better of her rival, and often
goes too far, even in the most secret regions of married life. So cruel,
burning, and incessant a combat in the obvious and, as we may call
them, exterior matters of a household must needs become more intense and
desperate in t