ome staircases,
the vast drawing-rooms--full of flowers, though it was in the depth of
winter, and decorated with the taste peculiar to women born to opulence
or to the elegant habits of the aristocracy, Augustine felt a terrible
clutch at her heart; she coveted the secrets of an elegance of which
she had never had an idea; she breathed in an air of grandeur which
explained the attraction of the house for her husband. When she reached
the private rooms of the Duchess she was filled with jealousy and a sort
of despair, as she admired the luxurious arrangement of the furniture,
the draperies and the hangings. Here disorder was a grace, here luxury
affected a certain contempt of splendor. The fragrance that floated
in the warm air flattered the sense of smell without offending it.
The accessories of the rooms were in harmony with a view, through
plate-glass windows, of the lawns in a garden planted with evergreen
trees. It was all bewitching, and the art of it was not perceptible. The
whole spirit of the mistress of these rooms pervaded the drawing-room
where Augustine awaited her. She tried to divine her rival's character
from the aspect of the scattered objects; but there was here something
as impenetrable in the disorder as in the symmetry, and to the
simple-minded young wife all was a sealed letter. All that she could
discern was that, as a woman, the Duchess was a superior person. Then a
painful thought came over her.

"Alas! And is it true," she wondered, "that a simple and loving heart
is not all-sufficient to an artist; that to balance the weight of these
powerful souls they need a union with feminine souls of a strength equal
to their own? If I had been brought up like this siren, our weapons at
least might have been equal in the hour of struggle."

"But I am not at home!" The sharp, harsh words, though spoken in an
undertone in the adjoining boudoir, were heard by Augustine, and her
heart beat violently.

"The lady is in there," replied the maid.

"You are an idiot! Show her in," replied the Duchess, whose voice was
sweeter, and had assumed the dulcet tones of politeness. She evidently
now meant to be heard.

Augustine shyly entered the room. At the end of the dainty boudoir she
saw the Duchess lounging luxuriously on an ottoman covered with brown
velvet and placed in the centre of a sort of apse outlined by soft folds
of white muslin over a yellow lining. Ornaments of gilt bronze, arranged
with exquisite t