the whole. The
mourning was still observed as rigidly as ever, the house was still
closed and silent as a cave. But in the place of the living statue
weeping and praying in the furthest recesses of the crypt was now a
pretty young woman whose hair was growing again, instinct with life in
every curl and wave of its soft luxuriance. The reappearance of this
fair hair gave a touch of lightness, almost of brightness, to the
widow's mourning, which seemed now no more than a caprice of fashion. In
the movements and tones of the Princess was perceptible the stirring of
spring; she had the air of relief and repose noticeable in young widows
in the second period of their mourning. It is a delightful position. For
the first time after the restraints of girlhood and the restraints of
marriage, a woman enjoys the sweets of liberty and undisputed possession
of herself; she is freed from contact with the coarser nature of man,
and above all from the fear of maternity, the haunting terror of the
young wife of the present day. In the case of the Princess Colette the
natural development of uncontrollable grief into perfect peacefulness
was emphasised by the paraphernalia of inconsolable widowhood with which
she was still surrounded. It was not hypocrisy; but how could she give
orders, without raising a smile on the servants' faces, to remove the
hat always waiting in the ante-room, the walking stick conspicuously
handy, the place at table always laid for the absent husband; how
could she say, 'The Prince will not dine to-night'? But the mystic
correspondence 'with Herbert in heaven' had begun to fall off, growing
less frequent every day, till it ended in a calmly written journal
which caused considerable, though unexpressed, amusement to Colette's
discerning friend.

The fact was that Madame Astier had a plan. The idea had sprung up in
her practical little mind one Tuesday night at the Theatre Francais,
when the Prince d'Athis had said to her confidentially in a low voice:
'Oh, my dear Adelaide, what a chain to drag! I am bored to death.' She
at once planned to marry him to the Princess. It was a new game to play,
crossing the old game, but not less subtle and fascinating. She had
not now to hold forth upon the eternal nature of vows, or to hunt up
in Joubert or other worthy philosophers such mottoes as the following,
which the Princess had written out at the beginning of her wedding book:
'A woman can be wife and widow with honour but