variations are taken no account of in the placid family circle
where traditional usages prevail year after year. And if some scandalous
episode or other occurs in the neighborhood, the disreputable story dies
a natural death when it reaches the threshold of the house. The father
and mother may, perhaps, exchange a few words on the subject when alone
together some evening, but they speak in hushed tones--for even walls
have ears. The father says, with bated breath:

"You've heard of that terrible affair in the Rivoil family?"

And the mother answers:

"Who would have dreamed of such a thing? It's dreadful."

The children suspected nothing, and arrive in their turn at years of
discretion with eyes and mind blindfolded, ignorant of the real side
of life, not knowing that people do not think as they speak, and do
not speak as they act; or aware that they should live at war, or at
all events, in a state of armed peace, with the rest of mankind; not
suspecting the fact that the simple are always deceived, the sincere
made sport of, the good maltreated.

Some go on till the day of their death in this blind probity and loyalty
and honor, so pure-minded that nothing can open their eyes.

Others, undeceived, but without fully understanding, make mistakes, are
dismayed, and become desperate, believing themselves the playthings of
a cruel fate, the wretched victims of adverse circumstances, and
exceptionally wicked men.

The Savignols married their daughter Bertha at the age of eighteen. She
wedded a young Parisian, George Baron by name, who had dealings on the
Stock Exchange. He was handsome, well-mannered, and apparently all that
could be desired. But in the depths of his heart he somewhat despised
his old-fashioned parents-in-law, whom he spoke of among his intimates
as "my dear old fossils."

He belonged to a good family, and the girl was rich. They settled down
in Paris.

She became one of those provincial Parisians whose name is legion. She
remained in complete ignorance of the great city, of its social side,
its pleasures and its customs--just as she remained ignorant also of
life, its perfidy and its mysteries.

Devoted to her house, she knew scarcely anything beyond her own street;
and when she ventured into another part of Paris it seemed to her that
she had accomplished a long and arduous journey into some unknown,
unexplored city. She would then say to her husband in the evening:

"I have been through the b