“Their household charms me; for it proves that one may build for one’s self, even in the midst of this Paris, a little nest such as one dreams of.  These dear neighbors are inhabitants of Paris—­not its prey.  They have their fireside; they own it, and it belongs to them.  Paris is at their door—­so much the better.  They have ever a relish for refined amusement; ‘they drink at the fountain,’ but do not drown themselves in it.  Their habits are the same, passing their evenings in conversation, reading, or music; stirring the fire and listening to the wind and rain without, as if they were in a forest.

   “Life slips gently through their fingers, thread by thread, as in
   our dear old country evenings.

   “My mother, they are happy!

   “Here, then, is my dream—­here is my plan.

“My husband has no vices, as Monsieur Jaubert had.  He has only the habits of all the brilliant men of his Paris-world.  It is necessary, my own mother, gradually to reform him; to suggest insensibly to him the new idea that one may pass one evening at home in company with a beloved and loving wife, without dying suddenly of consumption.

   “The rest will follow.

   “What is this rest?  It is the taste for a quiet life, for the
   serious sweetness of the domestic hearth—­the family taste—­the idea
   of seclusion—­the recovered soul!

“Is it not so, my good angel?  Then trust me.  I am more than ever full of ardor, courage, and confidence.  For he loves me with all his heart, with more levity, perhaps, than I deserve; but still—­he loves me!

   “He loves me; he spoils me; he heaps presents upon me.  There is no
   pleasure he does not offer me, except, be it understood, the
   pleasure of passing one evening at home together.

   “But he loves me!  That is the great point—­he loves me!

“Now, dearest mother, let me whisper one final word-a word that makes me laugh and cry at the same time.  It seems to me that for some time past I have had two hearts—­a large one of my own, and—­ another—­smaller!

“Oh, my mother!  I see you in tears.  But it is a great mystery this.  It is a dream of heaven; but perhaps only a dream, which I have not yet told even to my husband—­only to my adorable mother!  Do not weep, for it is not yet quite certain.

“Your naughty
Miss Mary.”

In reply to this letter Madame de Camors received one three mornings after, announcing to her the death of her grandfather.  The Comte de Tecle had died of apoplexy, of which his state of health had long given warning.  Madame de Tecle foresaw that the first impulse of her daughter would be to join her to share her sad bereavement.  She advised her strongly against undertaking the fatigue of the journey, and promised to visit her in Paris, as soon as she conveniently could.  The mourning in the family heightened in the heart of the Countess the uneasy feeling and vague sadness her last letters had indicated.