e sound of the name, at the sight
of its owner, Mme. de Beauseant let her book fall from her hands; her
surprise gave him time to come close to her, and to say in tones that
sounded like music in her ears:

"What a joy it was to me to take the horses that brought you on this
journey!"

To have the inmost desires of the heart so fulfilled! Where is the woman
who could resist such happiness as this? An Italian woman, one of those
divine creatures who, psychologically, are as far removed from the
Parisian as if they lived at the Antipodes, a being who would be
regarded as profoundly immoral on this side of the Alps, an Italian (to
resume) made the following comment on some French novels which she had
been reading. "I cannot see," she remarked, "why these poor lovers take
such a time over coming to an arrangement which ought to be the affair
of a single morning." Why should not the novelist take a hint from this
worthy lady, and refrain from exhausting the theme and the reader?
Some few passages of coquetry it would certainly be pleasant to give in
outline; the story of Mme. de Beauseant's demurs and sweet delayings,
that, like the vestal virgins of antiquity, she might fall gracefully,
and by lingering over the innocent raptures of first love draw from it
its utmost strength and sweetness. M. de Nueil was at an age when a
man is the dupe of these caprices, of the fence which women delight to
prolong; either to dictate their own terms, or to enjoy the sense of
their power yet longer, knowing instinctively as they do that it must
soon grow less. But, after all, these little boudoir protocols, less
numerous than those of the Congress of London, are too small to be worth
mention in the history of this passion.

For three years Mme. de Beauseant and M. de Nueil lived in the villa on
the lake of Geneva. They lived quite alone, received no visitors, caused
no talk, rose late, went out together upon the lake, knew, in short,
the happiness of which we all of us dream. It was a simple little house,
with green shutters, and broad balconies shaded with awnings, a house
contrived of set purpose for lovers, with its white couches, soundless
carpets, and fresh hangings, everything within it reflecting their
joy. Every window looked out on some new view of the lake; in the far
distance lay the mountains, fantastic visions of changing color and
evanescent cloud; above them spread the sunny sky, before them stretched
the broad sheet of w