faces, as in those of the Countess and his friend Martial, the secrets

of their agitation; and then, looking round, he wondered what
connection there could be between the gloomy looks of the Comte de

Soulanges, still seated on the sofa, and the plaintive expression of
the fair unknown, on whose features the joys of hope and the anguish

of involuntary dread were alternately legible. Montcornet stood like
the king of the feast. In this moving picture he saw a complete

presentment of the world, and he laughed at it as he found himself the
object of inviting smiles from a hundred beautiful and elegant women.

A Colonel of the Imperial Guard, a position equal to that of a
Brigadier-General, was undoubtedly one of the best matches in the

army.
It was now nearly midnight. The conversation, the gambling, the

dancing, the flirtations, interests, petty rivalries, and scheming had
all reached the pitch of ardor which makes a young man exclaim

involuntarily, "A fine ball!"
"My sweet little angel," said Madame de Lansac to the Countess, "you

are now at an age when in my day I made many mistakes. Seeing you are
just now enduring a thousand deaths, it occurred to me that I might

give you some charitable advice. To go wrong at two-and-twenty means
spoiling your future; is it not tearing the gown you must wear? My

dear, it is not much later that we learn to go about in it without
crumpling it. Go on, sweetheart, making clever enemies, and friends

who have no sense of conduct, and you will see what a pleasant life
you will some day be leading!"

"Oh, madame, it is very hard for a woman to be happy, do not you
think?" the Countess eagerly exclaimed.

"My child, at your age you must learn to choose between pleasure and
happiness. You want to marry Martial, who is not fool enough to make a

good husband, nor passionate enough to remain a lover. He is in debt,
my dear; he is the man to run through your fortune; still, that would

be nothing if he could make you happy.--Do not you see how aged he is?
The man must have been ill; he is making the most of what is left him.

In three years he will be a wreck. Then he will be ambitious; perhaps
he may succeed. I do not think so.--What is he? A man of intrigue, who

may have the business faculty to perfection, and be able to gossip
agreeably; but he is too presumptuous to have any sterling merit; he

will not go far. Besides--only look at him. Is it not written on his
brow that, at this very moment, what he sees in you is not a young and

pretty woman, but the two million francs you possess? He does not love
you, my dear; he is reckoning you up as if you were an investment. If

you are bent on marrying, find an older man who has an assured
position and is half-way on his career. A widow's marriage ought not

to be a trivial love affair. Is a mouse to be caught a second time in
the same trap? A new alliance ought now to be a good speculation on

your part, and in marrying again you ought at least to have a hope of
being some day addressed as Madame la Marechale!"

As she spoke, both women naturally fixed their eyes on Colonel
Montcornet's handsome face.

"If you would rather play the delicate part of a flirt and not marry
again," the Duchess went on, with blunt good-nature; "well! my poor

child, you, better than any woman, will know how to raise the storm-
clouds and disperse them again. But, I beseech you, never make it your

pleasure to disturb the peace of families, to destroy unions, and ruin
the happiness of happy wives. I, my dear, have played that perilous

game. Dear heaven! for a triumph of vanity some poor virtuous soul is
murdered--for there really are virtuous women, child,--and we may make

ourselves mortally hated. I learned, a little too late, that, as the
Duc d'Albe once said, one salmon is worth a thousand frogs! A genuine

affection certainly brings a thousand times more happiness than the
transient passions we may inspire.--Well, I came here on purpose to

preach to you; yes, you are the cause of my appearance in this house,
which stinks of the lower class. Have I not just seen actors here?

Formerly, my dear, we received them in our boudoir; but in the
drawing-room--never!--Why do you look at me with so much amazement?

Listen to me. If you want to play with men, do not try to wring the
hearts of any but those whose life is not yet settled, who have no

duties to fulfil; the others do not forgive us for the errors that
have made them happy. Profit by this maxim, founded on my long

experience.--That luckless Soulanges, for instance, whose head you
have turned, whom you have intoxicated for these fifteen months past,

God knows how! Do you know at what you have struck?--At his whole
life. He has been married these two years; he is worshiped by a

charming wife, whom he loves, but neglects; she lives in tears and
embittered silence. Soulanges has had hours of remorse more terrible

than his pleasure has been sweet. And you, you artful little thing,
have deserted him.--Well, come and see your work."

The old lady took Madame de Vaudremont's hand, and they rose.
"There," said Madame de Lansac, and her eyes showed her the stranger,

sitting pale and tremulous under the glare of the candles, "that is my
grandniece, the Comtesse de Soulanges; to-day she yielded at last to

my persuasion, and consented to leave the sorrowful room, where the
sight of her child gives her but little consolation. You see her? You

think her charming? Then imagine, dear Beauty, what she must have been
when happiness and love shed their glory on that face now blighted."

The Countess looked away in silence, and seemed lost in sad
reflections.

The Duchess led her to the door into the card-room; then, after
looking round the room as if in search of some one--"And there is

Soulanges!" she said in deep tones.
The Countess shuddered as she saw, in the least brilliantly lighted

corner, the pale, set face of Soulanges stretched in an easy-chair.
The indifference of his attitude and the rigidity of his brow betrayed

his suffering. The players passed him to and fro, without paying any
more attention to him than if he had been dead. The picture of the

wife in tears, and the dejected, morose husband, separated in the
midst of this festivity like the two halves of a tree blasted by

lightning, had perhaps a propheticsignificance for the Countess. She
dreaded lest she here saw an image of the revenges the future might

have in store for her. Her heart was not yet so dried up that the
feeling and generosity were entirely excluded, and she pressed the

Duchess' hand, while thanking her by one of those smiles which have a
certain childlike grace.

"My dear child," the old lady said in her ear, "remember henceforth
that we are just as capable of repelling a man's attentions as of

attracting them."
"She is yours if you are not a simpleton." These words were whispered

into Colonel Montcornet's ear by Madame de Lansac, while the handsome
Countess was still absorbed in compassion at the sight of Soulanges,

for she still loved him truly enough to wish to restore him to
happiness, and was promising herself in her own mind that she would

exert the irresistible power her charms still had over him to make him
return to his wife.

"Oh! I will talk to him!" said she to Madame de Lansac.
"Do nothing of the kind, my dear!" cried the old lady, as she went

back to her armchair. "Choose a good husband, and shut your door to my
nephew. Believe me, my child, a wife cannot accept her husband's heart

as the gift of another woman; she is a hundred times happier in the
belief that she has reconquered it. By bringing my niece here I

believe I have given her an excellent chance of regaining her
husband's affection. All the assistance I need of you is to play the

Colonel." She pointed to the Baron's friend, and the Countess smiled.
"Well, madame, do you at last know the name of the unknown?" asked

Martial, with an air of pique, to the Countess when he saw her alone.
"Yes," said Madame de Vaudremont, looking him in the face.

Her features expressed as much roguery as fun. The smile which gave
life to her lips and cheeks, the liquidbrightness of her eyes, were

like the will-o'-the-wisp which leads travelers astray. Martial, who
believed that she still loved him, assumed the coquetting graces in

which a man is so ready to lull himself in the presence of the woman
he loves. He said with a fatuous air:

"And will you be annoyed with me if I seem to attach great importance
to your telling me that name?"

"Will you be annoyed with me," answered Madame de Vaudremont, "if a
remnant of affection prevents my telling you; and if I forbid you to