doir, either by the harmony of color
or the charm of contrast. The same thought guided the arrangement of
the flowers with which she filled the twisted vases which decorated her
chamber. The sofa was placed beside the fire. On either side of the bed,
which filled the space parallel to that of the chimney, she placed on
gilded tables tall Dresden vases filled with foliage and flowers that
were sweetly fragrant. She quivered more than once as she arranged the
folds of the green damask above the bed, and studied the fall of the
drapery which concealed it. Such preparations have a secret, ineffable
happiness about them; they cause so many delightful emotions that a
woman as she makes them forgets her doubts; and Mademoiselle de Verneuil
forgot hers. There is in truth a religious sentiment in the multiplicity
of cares taken for one beloved who is not there to see them and reward
them, but who will reward them later with the approving smile these
tender preparations (always so fully understood) obtain. Women, as they
make them, love in advance; and there are few indeed who would not say
to themselves, as Mademoiselle de Verneuil now thought: "To-night I
shall be happy!" That soft hope lies in every fold of silk or muslin;
insensibly, the harmony the woman makes about her gives an atmosphere of
love in which she breathes; to her these things are beings, witnesses;
she has made them the sharers of her coming joy. Every movement, every
thought brings that joy within her grasp. But presently she expects no
longer, she hopes no more, she questions silence; the slightest sound
is to her an omen; doubt hooks its claws once more into her heart; she
burns, she trembles, she is grasped by a thought which holds her like
a physical force; she alternates from triumph to agony, and without the
hope of coming happiness she could not endure the torture. A score of
times did Mademoiselle de Verneuil raise the window-curtain, hoping to
see the smoke rising above the rocks; but the fog only took a grayer
tone, which her excited imagination turned into a warning. At last she
let fall the curtain, impatiently resolving not to raise it again. She
looked gloomily around the charming room to which she had given a soul
and a voice, asking herself if it were done in vain, and this thought
brought her back to her preparations.

"Francine," she said, drawing her into a little dressing-room which
adjoined her chamber and was lighted through a small round