ing the depths in either soul, testing the
sincerity of their expressions; only, whereas Gaston's experiments were
made unconsciously, Mme. de Beauseant had a purpose in all that she
said. Bringing her natural and acquired subtlety to the work, she sought
to learn M. de Nueil's opinions by advancing, as far as she could do
so, views diametrically opposed to her own. So witty and so gracious was
she, so much herself with this stranger, with whom she felt completely
at ease, because she felt sure that they should never meet again, that,
after some delicious epigram of hers, Gaston exclaimed unthinkingly:

"Oh! madame, how could any man have left you?"

The Vicomtesse was silent. Gaston reddened, he thought that he had
offended her; but she was not angry. The first deep thrill of delight
since the day of her calamity had taken her by surprise. The skill of
the cleverest _roue_ could not have made the impression that M. de Nueil
made with that cry from the heart. That verdict wrung from a young man's
candor gave her back innocence in her own eyes, condemned the world,
laid the blame upon the lover who had left her, and justified her
subsequent solitary drooping life. The world's absolution, the heartfelt
sympathy, the social esteem so longed for, and so harshly refused, nay,
all her secret desires were given her to the full in that exclamation,
made fairer yet by the heart's sweetest flatteries and the admiration
that women always relish eagerly. He understood her, understood all, and
he had given her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the
opportunity of rising higher through her fall. She looked at the clock.

"Ah! madame, do not punish me for my heedlessness. If you grant me but
one evening, vouchsafe not to shorten it."

She smiled at the pretty speech.

"Well, as we must never meet again," she said, "what signifies a moment
more or less? If you were to care for me, it would be a pity."

"It is too late now," he said.

"Do not tell me that," she answered gravely. "Under any other
circumstances I should be very glad to see you. I will speak frankly,
and you will understand how it is that I do not choose to see you again,
and ought not to do so. You have too much magnanimity not to feel that
if I were so much as suspected of a second trespass, every one would
think of me as a contemptible and vulgar woman; I should be like other
women. A pure and blameless life will bring my character into relief.
I