show in their several occupations, one would have supposed that they were all equally peaceful at heart.  Madame de Bergenheim, upon rising, had resumed her usual habits; she managed to find the proper words to reply when spoken to, her dejection did not differ from her usual melancholy enough for it to become the subject of remark.  A rather bright color in her cheeks heightened her beauty; her eyes never had sparkled with more brilliancy; but if a hand had been placed upon her forehead, one would have soon discovered by its burning the secret of all this unwonted color.  In fact, in the midst of this sumptuous room, surrounded by her friends, and bending over her embroidery with most exquisite grace, Madame de Bergenheim was slowly dying.  A wasting fever was circulating like poison through her veins.  She felt that an unheard-of sorrow was hanging over her head, and that no effort of hers could prevent it.

At this very moment, either the man she belonged to or the one she loved was about to die; whatever her widowhood might be, she felt that her mourning would be brief; young, beautiful, surrounded by all the privileges of rank and fortune, life was closing around her, and left but one pathway open, which was full of blood; she would have to bathe her feet in it in order to pass through.

“What is that smoke above the Montigny rock?” Aline exclaimed with surprise; “it looks as if there were a fire in the woods.”

Madame de Bergenheim raised her eyes, shivered from head to foot as she saw the stream of smoke which stood out against the horizon, and then let her head droop upon her breast.  Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stopped her reading as she heard Aline’s remark, and turned slowly to look out of the window.

“That’s some of the shepherds’ work,” said she; “they have built a fire in the bushes at the risk of setting fire to the whole woods.  Really, I do not know what to think of your husband, Clemence; he takes everybody away to the hunt with him, and does not leave a soul here to prevent his dwelling from being devastated.”

Clemence made no reply, and her sister-in-law, who expected she would say something to keep the conversation alive, returned and seated herself at the piano with a pouting air.

“Thanks, that will do for to-day!” exclaimed the old lady at the first notes; “you have split our heads long enough.  You would do better to study your history of France.”

Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece of advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of a pupil in disgrace.  A deep silence reigned.  Madame de Bergenheim had dropped her embroidery without noticing it.  From time to time she trembled as if a chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch the smoke ascending above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some imaginary sound.

“Truly,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal down in her lap, “good morals have made great progress since the July revolution.  Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier with her lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who poisons her husband and kills herself afterward.  If I were superstitious, I should say that the world was coming to an end.  What do you think of such atrocious doings, my dear?”