es
of her faults, the virtues of her vices.

Treating love as cavalierly as a man treats it, she pushed as far, nay,
further, than a man, devotion, generosity, courage, and, above all,
intense horror of all baseness. Madame de Lucenay, being about to go to
a party in the evening, was, although without her diamonds, dressed with
her accustomed taste and magnificence; and her splendid costume, the
rouge she wore without attempt at concealment, like a court lady, up to
her eyelids, her beauty, which was especially brilliant at candle-light,
her figure of a goddess walking in the clouds, rendered still more
striking that noble air which no one displayed to greater advantage than
she did, and which she carried, if requisite, to a height of insolence
that was overwhelming.

We know the haughty and resolute disposition of the duchess, and we may
imagine her physiognomy, her look, when the vicomte, advancing towards
her, conceited, smiling, confident, said, in a tone of love:

"Dearest Clotilde, how good you are! How you--"

The vicomte could not finish. The duchess was seated, and had not
risen; but her gesture, her glance, betokened contempt, at once so calm
and crushing that Florestan stopped short. He could not utter another
word, nor advance another step. He had never before seen Madame de
Lucenay under this aspect. He could not believe that it was the same
woman, whom he had always found gentle, tender, and passionately
submissive; for nothing is more humble, more timid, than a determined
woman in the presence of the man whom she loves and who controls her.

His first surprise past, Florestan was ashamed of his weakness; his
habitual audacity resumed its ascendency, and, making a step towards
Madame de Lucenay in order to take her hand, he said, in his most
insinuating tone:

"Clotilde, what ails you? I never saw you look so lovely, and yet--"

"Really, this is too impudent!" exclaimed the duchess, recoiling with
such disgust and hauteur that Florestan was again overcome with
surprise.

Resuming some assurance, he said to her:

"Will you, at least, Clotilde, tell me the cause of this change, sudden,
singular as it is? What have I done? How have I offended?"

Without making any reply, Madame de Lucenay looked at him, as is
vulgarly said, from head to foot, with so insulting an expression that
Florestan felt red with the anger which displayed itself upon his brow,
and exclaimed:

"I am aware, madame, that it i