of forty-five.
Virginie de Frontignac had been given him to wife when but eighteen,--a
beautiful, generous, impulsive, wilful girl. She had accepted him
gladly, for very substantial reasons. First, that she might come out of
the convent where she was kept for the very purpose of educating her in
ignorance of the world she was to live in. Second, that she might wear
velvet, lace, cashmere, and jewels. Third, that she might be a Madame,
free to go and come, ride, walk, and talk, without surveillance.
Fourth,--and consequent upon this,--that she might go into company and
have admirers and adorers.

She supposed, of course, that she loved her husband;--whom else should
she love? He was the only man, except her father and brothers, that she
had ever known; and in the fortnight that preceded their marriage did he
not send her the most splendid _bons-bons_ every day, with bouquets of
every pattern that ever taxed the brain of a Parisian _artiste_?--was
not the _corbeille de mariage_ a wonder and an envy to all her
acquaintance?--and after marriage had she not found him always a steady,
indulgent friend, easy to be coaxed as any grave papa?

On his part, Monsieur de Frontignac cherished his young wife as a
beautiful, though somewhat absurd little pet, and amused himself with
her frolics and gambols, as the gravest person often will with those of
a kitten.

It was not until she knew Aaron Burr that poor Virginie de Frontignac
came to that great awakening of her being which teaches woman what
she is, and transforms her from a careless child to a deep-hearted,
thinking, suffering human being.

For the first time, in his society she became aware of the charm of a
polished and cultivated mind, able with exquisite tact to adapt itself
to hers, to draw forth her inquiries, to excite her tastes, to stimulate
her observation. A new world awoke around her,--the world of literature
and taste, of art and of sentiment; she felt, somehow, as if she had
gained the growth of years in a few months. She felt within herself the
stirring of dim aspiration, the uprising of a new power of self-devotion
and self-sacrifice, a trance of hero-worship, a cloud of high ideal
images,--the lighting up, in short, of all that God has laid, ready to
be enkindled, in a woman's nature, when the time comes to sanctify her
as the pure priestess of a domestic temple. But, alas! it was kindled
by one who did it only for an experiment, because he felt an artisti