sentiment dictates
them, and at this moment my maternal love gives me, I fear, a foresight
of the future. There is only just time to rescue you from the danger
into which you are running. You hope to retain your husband by your
generosity? There where you think you are giving proofs of love he will
only see proofs of weakness. If you make yourself cheap he will count
you as nothing. If you throw yourself at his feet he will trample on
you."

The Princess shook her head haughtily, and smiled.

"You don't know him, mamma. He is a gentleman; he understands all these
delicacies, and there is more to be gained by submitting one's self to
his discretion, than by trying to resist his will. You blame his manner
of existence, but you don't understand him. I know him. He belongs to
a different race than you and I. He needs refinements of luxury which
would be useless to us, but the deprivation of which would be hard to
him. He suffered much when he was poor, he is making up for it now. We
are guilty of some extravagances, 'tis true; but what does it matter?
For whom have you made a fortune? For me! For what object? My happiness!
Well, I am happy to surround my Prince with the glory and pomp which
suits him so well. He is grateful to me; he loves me, and I hold his
love dearer than all else in the world; for if ever he ceases to love me
I shall die!"

"Micheline!" cried Madame Desvarennes, beside herself, and seizing her
daughter with nervous strength.

The young wife quietly allowed her fair head to fall on her mother's
shoulder, and whispered faintly in her ear:

"You don't want to wreck my life. I understand your displeasure. It
is natural; I feel it. You cannot think otherwise than you do, being a
simple, hardworking woman; but I beg of you to banish all hatred, and
confine these ideas within yourself. Say nothing more about them for
love of me!"

The mother was vanquished. She had never been able to resist that
suppliant voice.

"Ah! cruel child," she moaned, "what pain you are causing me!"

"You consent, don't you, dear mother?" murmured Micheline, falling into
the arms of her by whom she knew she was adored.

"I will do as you wish," said Madame Desvarennes, kissing her daughter's
hair--that golden hair which, in former days, she loved to stroke.

The strains of the piano sounded on the terrace. In the shade, groups
of merry dancers were enjoying themselves. Happy voices were heard
approaching, and Savinien, f