pecimen of dissipation, of turbulence, of futility, and finally of
worldly extravagance that bears the name of Countess de Palme, and the
nickname of the Little Countess; a rather ill-fitting nickname, by the
way, for the lady is not small, but simply slender and lithe. Madame de
Palme is twenty-five years of age; she is a widow; she spends the winter
in Paris with her sister, and the summer in an old Norman manor-house,
with her aunt, Madame de Pontbrian. Let me get rid of the aunt first.

This aunt, who is of very ancient nobility, is particularly noted for the
fervor of her hereditary opinions, and for her strict devotion. Those are
both claims to consideration which I admit fully, so far as I am
concerned. Every solid principle and every sincere sentiment command in
these days a peculiar respect. Unfortunately Madame de Pontbrian seems to
be one of those intensely devout persons who are but very indifferent
Christians. She is one of those who, reducing to a few minor observances,
of which they are ridiculously proud, all the duties of their religious or
political faith, impart to both a harsh and hateful appearance, the effect
of which is not exactly to attract proselytes. The outer forms, in all
things, are sufficient for her conscience; otherwise, no trace of charity
or kindness; above all, no trace of humility. Her genealogy, her assiduity
to church, and her annual pilgrimages to the shrine of an illustrious
exile (who would probably be glad to dispense with the sight of her
countenance), inspire in this fairy such a lofty idea of herself and such
a profound contempt for her neighbor, that they make her positively
unsociable. She remains forever absorbed in the latrian worship which she
believes due to herself. She deigns to speak but to God, and He must
indeed be a kind and merciful God if He listens to her.

Under the nominal patronage of this mystic duenna, the Little Countess
enjoys an absolute independence, which she uses to excess. After spending
the winter in Paris, where she kills off regularly two horses and a
coachman every month for the sole gratification of waltzing ten minutes
every night in half a dozen different balls, Madame de Palme feels the
necessity of seeking rest in the peace of rural life. She arrives at her
aunt's, she jumps upon a horse, and she starts at full gallop. It matters
not which way she goes, provided she keeps going. Most generally she comes
to the Chateau de Malouet, where the