daughter's, came to Paris, spurred by the ambition to
be at the head of a church in the capital--a position which he regarded
perhaps as the stepping-stone to a bishopric. On resuming his former
control of this wandering lamb, he was horrified to find her already so
much deteriorated by the air of Paris, and strove to reclaim her to his
chilly fold. Frightened by the exhortations of this priest, a man of
about eight-and-thirty, who brought with him, into the circle of the
enlightened and tolerant Paris clergy, the bitter provincial catholicism
and the inflexible bigotry which fetter timid souls with endless
exactions, Madame de Granville did penance and returned from her
Jansenist errors.

It would be tiresome to describe minutely all the circumstances which
insensibly brought disaster on this household; it will be enough to
relate the simple facts without giving them in strict order of time.

The first misunderstanding between the young couple was, however, a
serious one.

When Granville took his wife into society she never declined solemn
functions, such as dinners, concerts, or parties given by the Judges
superior to her husband in the legal profession; but for a long time she
constantly excused herself on the plea of a sick headache when they were
invited to a ball. One day Granville, out of patience with these assumed
indispositions, destroyed a note of invitation to a ball at the house of
a Councillor of State, and gave his wife only a verbal invitation. Then,
on the evening, her health being quite above suspicion, he took her to a
magnificent entertainment.

"My dear," said he, on their return home, seeing her wear an offensive
air of depression, "your position as a wife, the rank you hold in
society, and the fortune you enjoy, impose on you certain duties of
which no divine law can relieve you. Are you not your husband's pride?
You are required to go to balls when I go, and to appear in a becoming
manner."

"And what is there, my dear, so disastrous in my dress?"

"It is your manner, my dear. When a young man comes up to speak to you,
you look so serious that a spiteful person might believe you doubtful
of your own virtue. You seem to fear lest a smile should undo you. You
really look as if you were asking forgiveness of God for the sins
that may be committed around you. The world, my dearest, is not a
convent.--But, as you mentioned your dress, I may confess to you that it
is no less a duty to conform t