Such little details often drew tears to the eyes of the countess.  A single sensation, which is perhaps all-powerful in some rare organizations, will give an idea of Laurence’s emotions; it may be perceived by recalling the perfect unison of two fine voices (like those of Malibran and Sontag) in some harmonious duo, or the blending of two instruments touched by the hand of genius, their melodious tones entering the soul like the passionate sighing of one heart.  Sometimes, seeing the Marquis de Simeuse buried in an arm-chair and glancing from time to time with deepest melancholy at his brother and Laurence who were talking and laughing, the abbe believed him capable of making the great sacrifice; presently, however, the priest would see in the young man’s eyes the flash of an unconquerable passion.  Whenever either of the brothers found himself alone with Laurence he might reasonably suppose himself the one preferred.

“I fancy then that there is but one of them,” explained the countess to the abbe when he questioned her.  That answer showed the priest her total want of coquetry.  Laurence did not conceive that she was loved by two men.

“But, my dear child,” said Madame d’Hauteserre one evening (her own son silently dying of love for Laurence), “you must choose!”

“Oh, let us be happy,” she replied; “God will save us from ourselves.”

Adrien d’Hauteserre buried within his breast the jealousy that was consuming him; he kept the secret of his torture, aware of how little he could hope.  He tried to be content with the happiness of seeing the charming woman who during the few months this struggle lasted shone in all her brilliancy.  In one sense Laurence had become coquettish, taking that dainty care of her person which women who are loved delight in.  She followed the fashions, and went more than once to Paris to deck her beauty with chiffons or some choice novelty.  Desirous of giving her cousins a sense of home and its every enjoyment, from which they had so long been severed, she made her chateau, in spite of the remonstrances of her late guardian, the most completely comfortable house in Champagne.

Robert d’Hauteserre saw nothing of this hidden drama; he never noticed his brother’s love for Laurence.  As to the girl herself, he liked to tease her about her coquetry,—­for he confounded that odious defect with the natural desire to please; he was always mistaken in matters of feeling, taste, and the higher ethics.  So, whenever this man of the middle-ages appeared on the scene, Laurence immediately made him, unknown to himself, the clown of the play; she amused her cousins by arguing with Robert, and leading him, step by step, into some bog of ignorance and stupidity.  She excelled in such clever mischief, which, to be really successful, must leave the victim content with himself.  And yet, though his nature was a coarse one, Robert never, during those delightful months (the only happy period in the lives of the