unconcern of a child who looks every one in the face, and now dropped
her eyes; her movements were slow and infrequent, like those of her

mother; her figure was slim, but the gracefulness of the bust was
already developing; already an instinct of coquetry had smoothed the

magnificent black hair which lay in bands upon her Spanish brow. She
was like those pretty statuettes of the Middle Ages, so delicate in

outline, so slender in form that the eye as it seizes their charm
fears to break them. Health, the fruit of untold efforts, had made her

cheeks as velvety as a peach and given to her throat the silken down
which, like her mother's, caught the light. She was to live! God had

written it, dear bud of the loveliest of human flowers, on the long
lashes of her eyelids, on the curve of those shoulders which gave

promise of a development as superb as her mother's! This brown young
girl, erect as a poplar, contrasted with Jacques, a fragile youth of

seventeen, whose head had grown immensely, causing anxiety by the
rapid expansion of the forehead, while his feverish, weary eyes were

in keeping with a voice that was deep and sonorous. The voice gave
forth too strong a volume of tone, the eye too many thoughts. It was

Henriette's intellect and soul and heart that were here devouring with
swift flames a body without stamina; for Jacques had the milk-white

skin and high color which characterize young English women doomed
sooner or later to the consumptive curse,--an appearance of health

that deceives the eye. Following a sign by which Henriette, after
showing me Madeleine, made me look at Jacques drawing geometrical

figures and algebraic calculations on a board before the Abbe Dominis,
I shivered at the sight of death hidden beneath the roses, and was

thankful for the self-deception of his mother.
"When I see my children thus, happiness stills my griefs--just as

those griefs are dumb, and even disappear, when I see them failing. My
friend," she said, her eyes shining with maternal pleasure, "if other

affections fail us, the feelings rewarded here, the duties done and
crowned with success, are compensation enough for defeat elsewhere.

Jacques will be, like you, a man of the highest education, possessed
of the worthiest knowledge; he will be, like you, an honor to his

country, which he may assist in governing, helped by you, whose
standing will be so high; but I will strive to make him faithful to

his first affections. Madeleine, dear creature, has a noble heart; she
is pure as the snows on the highest Alps; she will have a woman's

devotion and a woman's gracefulintellect. She is proud; she is worthy
of being a Lenoncourt. My motherhood, once so tried, so tortured, is

happy now, happy with an infinite happiness, unmixed with pain. Yes,
my life is full, my life is rich. You see, God makes my joy to blossom

in the heart of these sanctified affections, and turns to bitterness
those that might have led me astray--"

"Good!" cried the abbe, joyfully. "Monsieur le vicomte begins to know
as much as I--"

Just then Jacques coughed.
"Enough for to-day, my dear abbe," said the countess, "above all, no

chemistry. Go for a ride on horseback, Jacques," she added, letting
her son kiss her with the tender and yet dignified pleasure of a

mother. "Go, dear, but take care of yourself."
"But," I said, as her eyes followed Jacques with a lingering look,

"you have not answered me. Do you feel ill?"
"Oh, sometimes, in my stomach. If I were in Paris I should have the

honors of gastritis, the fashionable disease."
"My mother suffers very much and very often," said Madeleine.

"Ah!" she said, "does my health interest you?"
Madeleine, astonished at the irony of these words, looked from one to

the other; my eyes counted the roses on the cushion of the gray and
green sofa which was in the salon.

"This situation is intolerable," I whispered in her ear.
"Did I create it?" she asked. "Dear child," she said aloud, with one

of those cruel levities by which women point their vengeance, "don't
you read history? France and England are enemies, and ever have been.

Madeleine knows that; she knows that a broad sea, and a cold and
stormy one, separates them."

The vases on the mantelshelf had given place to candelabra, no doubt
to deprive me of the pleasure of filling them with flowers; I found

them later in my own room. When my servant arrived I went out to give
him some orders; he had brought me certain things I wished to place in

my room.
"Felix," said the countess, "do not make a mistake. My aunt's old room

is now Madeleine's. Yours is over the count's."
Though guilty, I had a heart; those words were dagger thrusts coldly

given at its tenderest spot, for which she seemed to aim. Moral
sufferings are not fixed quantities; they depend on the sensitiveness

of souls. The countess had trod each round of the ladder of pain; but,
for that very reason, the kindest of women was now as cruel as she was

once beneficent. I looked at Henriette, but she averted her head. I
went to my new room, which was pretty, white and green. Once there I

burst into tears. Henriette heard me as she entered with a bunch of
flowers in her hand.

"Henriette," I said, "will you never forgive a wrong that is indeed
excusable?"

"Do not call me Henriette," she said. "She no longer exists, poor
soul; but you may feel sure of Madame de Mortsauf, a devoted friend,

who will listen to you and who will love you. Felix, we will talk of
these things later. If you have still any tenderness for me let me

grow accustomed to seeing you. Whenever words will not rend my heart,
if the day should ever come when I recover courage, I will speak to

you, but not till then. Look at the valley," she said, pointing to the
Indre, "it hurts me, I love it still."

"Ah, perish England and all her women! I will send my resignation to
the king; I will live and die here, pardoned."

"No, love her; love that woman! Henriette is not. This is no play, and
you should know it."

She left the room, betraying by the tone of her last words the extent
of her wounds. I ran after her and held her back, saying, "Do you no

longer love me?"
"You have done me more harm than all my other troubles put together.

To-day I suffer less, therefore I love you less. Be kind; do not
increase my pain; if you suffer, remember that--I--live."

She withdrew her hand, which I held, cold, motionless, but moist, in
mine, and darted like an arrow through the corridor in which this

scene of actualtragedy took place.
At dinner, the count subjected me to a torture I had little expected.

"So the Marchioness of Dudley is not in Paris?" he said.
I blushed excessively, but answered, "No."

"She is not in Tours," continued the count.
"She is not divorced, and she can go back to England. Her husband

would be very glad if she would return to him," I said, eagerly.
"Has she children?" asked Madame de Mortsauf, in a changed voice.

"Two sons," I replied.
"Where are they?"

"In England, with their father."
"Come, Felix," interposed the count; "be frank; is she as handsome as

they say?"
"How can you ask him such a question?" cried the countess. "Is not the

woman you love always the handsomest of women?"
"Yes, always," I said, firmly, with a glance which she could not

sustain.
"You are a happy fellow," said the count; "yes, a very happy one. Ha!

in my young days, I should have gone mad over such a conquest--"
"Hush!" said Madame de Mortsauf, reminding the count of Madeleine by a

look.
"I am not a child," he said.

When we left the table I followed the countess to the terrace. When we
were alone she exclaimed, "How is it possible that some women can

sacrifice their children to a man? Wealth, position, the world, I can
conceive of; eternity? yes, possibly; but children! deprive one's self

of one's children!"
"Yes, and such women would give even more if they had it; they