the man who might have given her his name, honorable, having resisted
temptations and snares, worthy of the motto which used to be engraved
on the tombs of Roman matrons before the Caesars: "_She spun wool, and
kept at home_."

When she was just twenty-one, Marie-des-Anges fell in love, and her
beautiful, dark, restless eyes for the first time became illuminated with
a look of dreamy happiness. For someone seemed to have noticed her; he
waltzed with her more frequently than he did with the other girls, spoke
to her in a low voice, dangled at her petticoats, and discomposed her so
much, that she flushed deeply as soon as she heard the sound of his
voice.

His name was Andre de Gedre; he had just returned from Senegal, where
after several months of daily fighting in the desert, he had won his
sub-lieutenant's epaulets.

With his thin, surnburnt, yellow face, looking awkward in his tight coat,
in which his broad shoulders could not distend themselves comfortably,
and in which his arms, which had formerly been used to cut right and
left, were cramped in their tight sleeves, he looked like one of those
pirates of old, who used to scour the seas, pillaging, killing, hanging
their prisoners to the yard-arms, who were ready to engage a whole fleet,
and who returned to the port laden with booty, and occasionally with
waifs and strays picked up at sea.

He belonged to a race of buccaneers or of heroes, according to the breeze
which swelled his sails and carried him North or South. Over head and
ears in debt, reduced to discounting doubtful legacies, to gambling at
Casinos, and to mortgaging the few acres of land that he had remaining at
much below their value, he nevertheless managed to make a pretty good
figure in his hand to mouth existence; he never gave in, never showed the
blows that he had received, and waited for the last struggle in a state
of blissful inactivity, while he sought for renewed strength and
philosophy from the caressing lips of women.

Marie-des-Anges seemed to him to be a toy which he could do with as
he liked. She had the flavor of unripe fruit; left to herself, and
sentimental as she was, she would only offer a very brief resistance to
his attacks, and would soon yield to his will, and when he was tired of
her and threw her off, she would bow to the inevitable, and would not
worry him with violent scenes, nor stand in his way, with threats on her
lips. And so he was kind, and used to wheedle her, a