a spring festival which can only be fully appreciated in
Paris when the inhabitants have lived for six months oblivious of what
vegetation means, among the cliffs of stone where the ocean of
humanity tosses to and fro.

"Celestine," said Hortense to her sister-in-law, who had complained
that in such fine weather her husband should be kept at the Chamber,
"I think you do not fully appreciate your happiness. Victorin is a
perfect angel, and you sometimes torment him."

"My dear, men like to be tormented! Certain ways of teasing are a
proof of affection. If your poor mother had only been--I will not say
exacting, but always prepared to be exacting, you would not have had
so much to grieve over."

"Lisbeth is not come back. I shall have to sing the song of
_Malbrouck_," said Hortense. "I do long for some news of Wenceslas!
--What does he live on? He has not done a thing these two years."

"Victorin saw him, he told me, with that horrible woman not long ago;
and he fancied that she maintains him in idleness.--If you only would,
dear soul, you might bring your husband back to you yet."

Hortense shook her head.

"Believe me," Celestine went on, "the position will ere long be
intolerable. In the first instance, rage, despair, indignation, gave
you strength. The awful disasters that have come upon us since--two
deaths, ruin, and the disappearance of Baron Hulot--have occupied your
mind and heart; but now you live in peace and silence, you will find
it hard to bear the void in your life; and as you cannot, and will
never leave the path of virtue, you will have to be reconciled to
Wenceslas. Victorin, who loves you so much, is of that opinion. There
is something stronger than one's feelings even, and that is Nature!"

"But such a mean creature!" cried the proud Hortense. "He cares for
that woman because she feeds him.--And has she paid his debts, do you
suppose?--Good Heaven! I think of that man's position day and night!
He is the father of my child, and he is degrading himself."

"But look at your mother, my dear," said Celestine.

Celestine was one of those women who, when you have given them reasons
enough to convince a Breton peasant, still go back for the hundredth
time to their original argument. The character of her face, somewhat
flat, dull, and common, her light-brown hair in stiff, neat bands, her
very complexion spoke of a sensible woman, devoid of charm, but also
devoid of weakness.

"The Baroness would wi