eepest
anguish that her visit would be useless; this lady, full of artifice,
was too greedy of homage not to have a ruthless heart.

"Madame," said Augustine in a broken voice, "the step I am about to take
will seem to you very strange; but there is a madness of despair which
ought to excuse anything. I understand only too well why Theodore
prefers your house to any other, and why your mind has so much power
over his. Alas! I have only to look into myself to find more than ample
reasons. But I am devoted to my husband, madame. Two years of tears have
not effaced his image from my heart, though I have lost his. In my folly
I dared to dream of a contest with you; and I have come to you to ask
you by what means I may triumph over yourself. Oh, madame," cried the
young wife, ardently seizing the hand which her rival allowed her to
hold, "I will never pray to God for my own happiness with so much
fervor as I will beseech Him for yours, if you will help me to win back
Sommervieux's regard--I will not say his love. I have no hope but in
you. Ah! tell me how you could please him, and make him forget the first
days----" At these words Augustine broke down, suffocated with sobs she
could not suppress. Ashamed of her weakness, she hid her face in her
handkerchief, which she bathed with tears.

"What a child you are, my dear little beauty!" said the Duchess, carried
away by the novelty of such a scene, and touched, in spite of herself,
at receiving such homage from the most perfect virtue perhaps in Paris.
She took the young wife's handkerchief, and herself wiped the tears from
her eyes, soothing her by a few monosyllables murmured with gracious
compassion. After a moment's silence the Duchess, grasping poor
Augustine's hands in both her own--hands that had a rare character of
dignity and powerful beauty--said in a gentle and friendly voice:
"My first warning is to advise you not to weep so bitterly; tears are
disfiguring. We must learn to deal firmly with the sorrows that make us
ill, for love does not linger long by a sick-bed. Melancholy, at first,
no doubt, lends a certain attractive grace, but it ends by dragging the
features and blighting the loveliest face. And besides, our tyrants are
so vain as to insist that their slaves should be always cheerful."

"But, madame, it is not in my power not to feel. How is it possible,
without suffering a thousand deaths, to see the face which once beamed
with love and gladness turn chill