“How beautiful she was!”

It was apparently down in the depths of his abysm that he found the connection between this phrase and his last, and it was evidently to himself he said it.  Madame, however, heard and understood too; in fact, traced back to a certain period, her thoughts and Mr. Horace’s must have been fed by pretty much the same subjects.  But she had so carefully barricaded certain issues in her memory as almost to obstruct their flow into her life; if she were a cook, one would say that it was her bad dinners which she was trying to keep out of remembrance.

“You there, he there, she there, I there.”  He pointed to the places on the carpet, under the chandelier; he could have touched them with a walking-stick, and the recollection seemed just as close.

“She was, in truth, what we men called her then; it was her eyes that first suggested it—­Myosotis, the little blue flower, the for-get-me-not.  It suited her better than her own name.  We always called her that among ourselves.  How beautiful she was!” He leaned his head on his hand and looked where he had seen her last—­so long, such an eternity, ago.

It must be explained for the benefit of those who do not live in the little world where an allusion is all that is necessary to put one in full possession of any drama, domestic or social, that Mr. Horace was speaking of the wedding-night of madame, when the bridal party stood as he described under the chandelier; the bride and groom, with each one’s best friend.  It may be said that it was the last night or time that madame had a best friend of her own sex.  Social gossip, with characteristic kindness, had furnished reasons to suit all tastes, why madame had ceased that night to have a best friend of her own sex.  If gossip had not done so, society would still be left to its imagination for information, for madame never tolerated the smallest appeal to her for enlightenment.  What the general taste seemed most to relish as a version was that madame in her marriage had triumphed, not conquered; and that the night of her wedding she had realized the fact, and, to be frank, had realized it ever since.  In short, madame had played then to gain at love, as she played now to gain at solitaire; and hearts were no more than cards to her—­and, “Bah!  Lose a game for a card!” must have been always her motto.  It is hard to explain it delicately enough, for these are the most delicate affairs in life; but the image of Myosotis had passed through monsieur’s heart, and Myosotis does mean “forget me not.”  And madame well knew that to love monsieur once was to love him always, in spite of jealousy, doubt, distrust, nay, unhappiness (for to love him meant all this and more).  He was that kind of man, they said, whom women could love even against conscience.  Madame never forgave that moment.  Her friend, at least, she could put aside out of her intercourse; unfortunately, we cannot put people out of our lives.  God alone can do that, and so far he had interfered in the matter only by removing monsieur.  It was known to notoriety that since her wedding madame had abandoned, destroyed, all knowledge of her friend.  And the friend?  She had disappeared as much as is possible for one in her position and with her duties.