“You will readily understand, my friend, that I returned to society for the purpose of excitement and I may say of notoriety.  I felt that I must conquer my independence.  I led a life of dissipation.  To divert my mind, to forget my real life in fictitious enjoyments I was gay, I shone, I gave fetes, I played the princess, and I ran in debt.  At home I could forget myself in the sleep of weariness, able to rise the next day gay, and frivolous for the world; but in that sad struggle to escape my real life I wasted my fortune.  The revolution of 1830 came; it came at the very moment when I had met, at the end of that Arabian Nights’ life, a pure and sacred love which (I desire to be honest) I had longed to know.  Was it not natural in a woman whose heart, repressed by many causes and accidents, was awakening at an age when a woman feels herself cheated if she has never known, like the women she sees about her, a happy love?  Ah! why was Michel Chrestien so respectful?  Why did he not seek to meet me?  There again was another mockery!  But what of that? in falling, I have lost everything; I have no illusions left; I had tasted of all things except the one fruit for which I have no longer teeth.  Yes, I found myself disenchanted with the world at the very moment when I was forced to leave it.  Providential, was it not? like all those strange insensibilities which prepare us for death” (she made a gesture full of pious unction).  “All things served me then,” she continued; “the disasters of the monarchy and its ruin helped me to bury myself.  My son consoles me for much.  Maternal love takes the place of all frustrated feelings.  The world is surprised at my retirement, but to me it has brought peace.  Ah! if you knew how happy the poor creature before you is in this little place.  In sacrificing all to my son I forget to think of joys of which I am and ever must be ignorant.  Yes, hope has flown, I now fear everything; no doubt I should repulse the truest sentiment, the purest and most veritable love, in memory of the deceptions and the miseries of my life.  It is all horrible, is it not? and yet, what I have told you is the history of many women.”

The last few words were said in a tone of easy pleasantry which recalled the presence of the woman of the world.  D’Arthez was dumbfounded.  In his eyes convicts sent to the galleys for murder, or aggravated robbery, or for putting a wrong name to checks, were saints compared to the men and women of society.  This atrocious elegy, forged in the arsenal of lies, and steeped in the waters of the Parisian Styx, had been poured into his ears with the inimitable accent of truth.  The grave author contemplated for a moment that adorable woman lying back in her easy-chair, her two hands pendant from its arms like dewdrops from a rose-leaf, overcome by her own revelation, living over again the sorrows of her life as she told them—­in short an angel of melancholy.

“And judge,” she cried, suddenly lifting herself with a spring and raising her hand, while lightning flashed from eyes where twenty chaste years shone—­“judge of the impression the love of a man like Michel must have made upon me.  But by some irony of fate—­or was it the hand of God?—­well, he died; died in saving the life of, whom do you suppose? of Monsieur de Cadignan.  Are you now surprised to find me thoughtful?”