Often when Charles was out she took from the cupboard, between the

folds of the linen where she had left it, the green silk cigar case.

She looked at it, opened it, and even smelt the odour of the lining--a

mixture of verbena and tobacco. Whose was it? The Viscount's? Perhaps

it was a present from his mistress. It had been embroidered on some

rosewood frame, a pretty little thing, hidden from all eyes, that had

occupied many hours, and over which had fallen the soft curls of the

pensive worker. A breath of love had passed over the stitches on the

canvas; each prick of the needle had fixed there a hope or a memory, and

all those interwoven threads of silk were but the continuity of the same

silent passion. And then one morning the Viscount had taken it away

with him. Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the wide-mantelled

chimneys between flower-vases and Pompadour clocks? She was at Tostes;

he was at Paris now, far away! What was this Paris like? What a vague

name! She repeated it in a low voice, for the mere pleasure of it; it

rang in her ears like a great cathedral bell; it shone before her eyes,

even on the labels of her pomade-pots.

At night, when the carriers passed under her windows in their carts

singing the "Marjolaine," she awoke, and listened to the noise of the

iron-bound wheels, which, as they gained the country road, was soon

deadened by the soil. "They will be there to-morrow!" she said to

herself.

And she followed them in thought up and down the hills, traversing

villages, gliding along the highroads by the light of the stars. At the

end of some indefinite distance there was always a confused spot, into

which her dream died.

She bought a plan of Paris, and with the tip of her finger on the map

she walked about the capital. She went up the boulevards, stopping at

every turning, between the lines of the streets, in front of the white

squares that represented the houses. At last she would close the lids of

her weary eyes, and see in the darkness the gas jets flaring in the wind

and the steps of carriages lowered with much noise before the peristyles

of theatres.

She took in "La Corbeille," a lady's journal, and the "Sylphe des

Salons." She devoured, without skipping a word, all the accounts of

first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut of a

singer, in the opening of a new shop. She knew the latest fashions, the

addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois and the Opera. In

Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of furniture; she read Balzac and

George Sand, seeking in them imaginary satisfaction for her own desires.

Even at table she had her book by her, and turned over the pages

while Charles ate and talked to her. The memory of the Viscount always

returned as she read. Between him and the imaginary personages she made

comparisons. But the circle of which he was the centre gradually widened

round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his form, broadened

out beyond, lighting up her other dreams.




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