“We must make her walk,” said one.

“But, sirs, I can’t!” she cried.  “I can’t move!”

Then they took hold of her, raised her and dragged her a short distance, but she slipped from their grasp and fell to the floor, groaning and giving vent to such heartrending cries that they carried her back to her seat with infinite care and precaution.

They pronounced a guarded opinion—­agreeing, however, that work was an impossibility to her.

And when Hector brought this news to his wife she sank on a chair, murmuring: 

“It would be better to bring her here; it would cost us less.”

He started in amazement.

“Here?  In our own house?  How can you think of such a thing?”

But she, resigned now to anything, replied with tears in her eyes: 

“But what can we do, my love?  It’s not my fault!”

USELESS BEAUTY

I

About half-past five one afternoon at the end of June when the sun was shining warm and bright into the large courtyard, a very elegant victoria with two beautiful black horses drew up in front of the mansion.

The Comtesse de Mascaret came down the steps just as her husband, who was coming home, appeared in the carriage entrance.  He stopped for a few moments to look at his wife and turned rather pale.  The countess was very beautiful, graceful and distinguished looking, with her long oval face, her complexion like yellow ivory, her large gray eyes and her black hair; and she got into her carriage without looking at him, without even seeming to have noticed him, with such a particularly high-bred air, that the furious jealousy by which he had been devoured for so long again gnawed at his heart.  He went up to her and said:  “You are going for a drive?”

She merely replied disdainfully:  “You see I am!”

“In the Bois de Boulogne?”

“Most probably.”

“May I come with you?”

“The carriage belongs to you.”

Without being surprised at the tone in which she answered him, he got in and sat down by his wife’s side and said:  “Bois de Boulogne.”  The footman jumped up beside the coachman, and the horses as usual pranced and tossed their heads until they were in the street.  Husband and wife sat side by side without speaking.  He was thinking how to begin a conversation, but she maintained such an obstinately hard look that he did not venture to make the attempt.  At last, however, he cunningly, accidentally as it were, touched the countess’ gloved hand with his own, but she drew her arm away with a movement which was so expressive of disgust that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his usual authoritative and despotic character, and he said:  “Gabrielle!”

“What do you want?”

“I think you are looking adorable.”

She did not reply, but remained lying back in the carriage, looking like an irritated queen.  By that time they were driving up the Champs Elysees, toward the Arc de Triomphe.  That immense monument, at the end of the long avenue, raised its colossal arch against the red sky and the sun seemed to be descending on it, showering fiery dust on it from the sky.