he things of the heart. Sabine studied her attitudes,
her toilets; she took heed about herself in all the infinitely little
trifles of love.

The cooking trouble lasted nearly a month. Sabine, assisted by Mariotte
and Gasselin, invented various little vaudeville schemes to ascertain
the dishes which Madame de Rochefide served to Calyste. Gasselin was
substituted for Calyste's groom, who had fallen conveniently ill. This
enabled Gasselin to consort with Madame de Rochefide's cook, and before
long, Sabine gave Calyste the same fare, only better; but still he made
difficulties.

"What is wanting now?" she said.

"Oh, nothing," he answered, looking round the table for something he did
not find.

"Ah!" exclaimed Sabine, as she woke the next morning, "Calyste wanted
some of those Indian sauces they serve in England in cruets. Madame de
Rochefide accustoms him to all sorts of condiments."

She bought the English cruets and the spiced sauces; but it soon became
impossible for her to make such discoveries in all the preparations
invented by her rival.

This period lasted some months; which is not surprising when we remember
the sort of attraction presented by such a struggle. It is life. And
that is preferable, with its wounds and its anguish, to the gloomy
darkness of disgust, to the poison of contempt, to the void of
abdication, to that death of the heart which is called indifference. But
all Sabine's courage abandoned her one evening when she appeared in a
toilet such as women are inspired to wear in the hope of eclipsing a
rival, and about which Calyste said, laughing:--

"In spite of all you can do, Sabine, you'll never be anything but a
handsome Andalusian."

"Alas!" she said, dropping on a sofa, "I may never make myself a blonde,
but I know if this continues I shall soon be thirty-five years old."

She refused to go to the Opera as she intended, and chose to stay at
home the whole evening. But once alone she pulled the flowers from her
hair and stamped upon them; she tore off the gown and scarf and trampled
them underfoot, like a goat caught in the tangle of its tether, which
struggles till death comes. Then she went to bed.

XXI. THE WICKEDNESS OF A GOOD WOMAN

Playing for these terrible stakes Sabine grew thin; grief consumed
her; but she never for a moment forsook the role she had imposed upon
herself. Sustained by a sort of fever, her lips drove back into her
throat the bitter words that pain sugge