excited and to chatter; to enumerate her causes for complaint
against poor Count de Baudemont, who certainly had no suspicion

of his wife's escapade, and who would have been very much
surprised if anyone had told him of it at that moment, when he

was taking his fencing lesson at the club.
When she had quite finished, he said coolly, as if he were

throwing a pail of water on some burning straw:
"But, Madame, there is not the slightest pretext for a divorce in

anything that you have told me here. The judges would ask me
whether I took the Law Courts for a theater, and intended to make

fun of them."
And seeing how disheartened she was,--that she looked like a

child whose favorite toy had been broken, that she was so pretty
that he would have liked to kiss her hands in his devotion, and

as she seemed to be witty, and very amusing, and as, moreover, he
had no objection to such visits being prolonged, when papers had

to be looked over, while sitting close together,--Maitre
Garrulier appeared to be considering. Taking his chin in his

hand, he said:
"However, I will think it over; there is sure to be some dark

spot that can be made out worse. Write to me, and come and see me
again."

In the course of her visits, that black spot had increased so
much and Madame de Baudemont had followed her lawyer's advice so

punctually, and had played on the various strings so skillfully
that a few months later, after a lawsuit, which is still spoken

of in the Courts of Justice, and during the course of which the
President had to take off his spectacles, and to use his

pocket-handkerchief noisily, the divorce was pronounced in favor
of the Countess Marie Anne Nicole Bournet de Baudemont, nee de

Tanchart de Peothus.
The Count, who was nonplussed at such an adventure turning out so

seriously, first of all flew into a terrible rage, rushed off to
the lawyer's office and threatened to cut off his knavish ears

for him. But when his access of fury was over, and he thought of
it, he shrugged his shoulders and said:

"All the better for her, if it amuses her!"
Then he bought Baron Silberstein's yacht, and with some friends,

got up a cruise to Ceylon and India.
Marie Anne began by triumphing, and felt as happy as a schoolgirl

going home for the holidays; she committed every possible folly,
and soon, tired, satiated, and disgusted, began to yawn, cried,

and found out that she had sacrificed her happiness, like a
millionaire who has gone mad and has cast his banknotes and

shares into the river, and that she was nothing more than a
disabled waif and stray. Consequently, she now married again, as

the solitude of her home made her morose from morning till night;
and then, besides, she found a woman requires a mansion when she

goes into society, to race meetings, or to the theater.
And so, while she became a marchioness, and pronounced her second

"Yes," before a very few friends, at the office of the mayor of
the English urban district, malicious people in the Faubourg were

making fun of the whole affair, and affirming this and that,
whether rightly or wrongly, and comparing the present husband to

the former one, even declaring that he had partially been the
cause of the former divorce. Meanwhile Monsieur de Baudemont was

wandering over the four quarters of the globe trying to overcome
his homesickness, and to deaden his longing for love, which had

taken possession of his heart and of his body, like a slow
poison.

He traveled through the most out-of-the-way places, and the most
lovely countries, and spent months and months at sea, and plunged

into every kind of dissipation and debauchery. But neither the
supple forms nor the luxurious gestures of the bayaderes, nor the

large passive eyes of the Creoles, nor flirtations with English
girls with hair the color of new cider, nor nights of waking

dreams, when he saw new constellations in the sky, nor dangers
during which a man thinks it is all over with him, and mutters a

few words of prayer in spite of himself, when the waves are high,
and the sky black, nothing was able to make him forget that

little Parisian woman who smelled so sweet that she might have
been taken for a bouquet of rare flowers; who was so coaxing, so

curious, so funny; who never had the same caprice, the same
smile, or the same look twice, and who, at bottom, was worth more

than many others, either saints or sinners.
He thought of her constantly, during long hours of sleeplessness.

He carried her portrait about with him in the breast pocket of
his pea-jacket--a charmingportrait in which she was smiling, and

showing her white teeth between her half-open lips. Her gentle
eyes with their magnetic look had a happy, frank expression, and

from the mere arrangement of her hair, one could see that she was
fair among the fair.

He used to kiss that portrait of the woman who had been his wife
as if he wished to efface it, would look at it for hours, and

then throw himself down on the netting and sob like a child as he
looked at the infiniteexpanse before him, seeming to see their

lost happiness, the joys of their perished affections, and the
divine remembrance of their love, in the monotonous waste of

green waters. And he tried to accuse himself for all that had
occurred, and not to be angry with her, to think that his

grievances were imaginary, and to adore her in spite of
everything and always.

And so he roamed about the world, tossed to and fro, suffering
and hoping he knew not what. He ventured into the greatest

dangers, and sought for death just as a man seeks for his
mistress, and death passed close to him without touching him,

perhaps amused at his grief and misery.
For he was as wretched as a stone-breaker, as one of those poor

devils who work and nearly break their backs over the hard flints
the whole day long, under the scorching sun or the cold rain; and

Marie Anne herself was not happy, for she was pining for the past
and remembered their former love.

At last, however, he returned to France, changed, tanned by
exposure, sun, and rain, and transformed as if by some witch's

philter.
Nobody would have recognized the elegant and effeminate clubman,

in this corsair with broad shoulders, a skin the color of tan,
with very red lips, who rolled a little in his walk; who seemed

to be stifled in his black dress-coat, but who still retained the
distinguished manners and bearing of a nobleman of the last

century, one of those who, when he was ruined, fitted out a
privateer, and fell upon the English wherever he met them, from

St. Malo to Calcutta. And wherever he showed himself his friends
exclaimed:

"Why! Is that you? I should never have known you again!"
He was very nearly starting off again immediately; he even

telegraphed orders to Havre to get the steam-yacht ready for sea
directly, when he heard that Marie Anne had married again.

He saw her in the distance, at the Theatre Francais one Tuesday,
and when he noticed how pretty, how fair, how desirable she

was,--looking so melancholy, with all the appearance of an
unhappy soul that regrets something,--his determination grew

weaker, and he delayed his departure from week to week, and
waited, without knowing why, until, at last, worn out with the

struggle, watching her wherever she went, more in love with her
than he had ever been before, he wrote her long, mad, ardent

letters in which his passion overflowed like a stream of lava.
He altered his handwriting, as he remembered her restless brain,

and her many whims. He sent her the flowers which he knew she
liked best, and told her that she was his life, that he was dying

of waiting for her, of longing for her, for her his idol.
At last, very much puzzled and surprised, guessing--who

knows?--from the instinctivebeating of her heart, and her