Clemence and Christian should be placed in the first rank of privileged couples of this kind.  The most fastidious old uncle or precise old dowager could not discover the slightest pretense for criticism.  Age, social position, wealth, physical endowments, all seemed united by a chance as rare as fortunate.  So Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who had very high pretensions for her niece, made no objection upon receiving the first overtures.  She had not, at this time, the antipathy for her future nephew’s family which developed later.  The Bergenheims were in her eyes very well-born gentleman.

A meeting took place at the Russian Embassy.  Bergenheim came in uniform; it was etiquette to do so, as the minister of war was present; but at the same time, of course, there was a little vanity on his part, for his uniform showed off his tall, athletic figure to the best advantage.  Christian was certainly a very handsome soldier; his moustache and eyebrows were of a lighter tint than his complexion, and gave him that martial air which pleases women.  Clemence could find no reason for a refusal.  The way in which she had been brought up by her aunt had not rendered her so happy but that she often desired to change her situation.  Like the greater number of young girls, she consented to become a wife so as not to remain a maiden; she said yes, so as not to say no.

As to Christian, he was in love with his wife as nine out of ten cavalry officers know how to love, and he seemed perfectly satisfied with the sentiment that he received in return for this sudden affection.  A few successes with young belles, for whom an epaulette has an irresistible attraction, had inspired Baron de Bergenheim with a confidence in himself the simplicity of which excused the conceit.  He persuaded himself that he pleased Clemence because she suited him exactly.

There are singers who pretend to read music at sight; give them a score by Gluck—­“I beg your pardon,” they will say, “my part is written here in the key of ‘C’ and I sing only in the key of ’G’!” How many men do not know even the key of ‘G’ in matters of love!  Unfortunately for him, Bergenheim was one of that number.  After three years of married life, he had not divined the first note in Clemence’s character.  He decided in his own mind, at the end of a few months, that she was cold, if not heartless.  This discovery, which ought to have wounded his vanity, inspired him, on the contrary, with a deeper respect for her; insensibly this reserve reacted upon himself, for love is a fire whose heat dies out for want of fuel, and its cooling off is more sudden when the flame is more on the surface than in the depths.