But now it suddenly broke forth, more ardent, more powerful, than ever, till it well-nigh overcame her, and crushed her—­sweetly and sadly, like the memory of lost days, and at the same time cruel and heart-rending, like bitter remorse.

What had become of him?  When he had heard that she was going to marry the count, he had written to her a letter full of despair, in which he overwhelmed her with irony and contempt.  Later, whether he had forgotten her or not, he also had married; and the two lovers who had once hoped to pursue their way through life leaning one upon the other now went each their own way.

For long hours the poor young wife struggled in the solitude of her chamber against these ghosts of the past which crowded around her.  But, if ever a guilty thought called up a blush on her brow, she quickly triumphed over it.  Like a brave, loyal woman, she renewed her oath, and swore to devote herself entirely to her husband.  He had rescued her from abject poverty, and bestowed upon her his fortune and his name; and she owed it to him in return to make him happy.

She needed all her courage, all her energy, to fulfil her vows; for the count’s character lay fully open before her now, after two years of married life.  She knew precisely how narrow his mind was, how empty his thoughts, and how cold his heart.  She had long since found out that the brilliant man of the world, whom everybody considered so clever, was in reality an absolute nullity, incapable of any thought that was not suggested to him by others, and at the same time full of overweening self-esteem, and absurdly obstinate.

The worst, however, was, that the count was very near hating his wife.  He had heard so many people say that she was not his equal, that he finally believed it himself.  Besides, he blamed her for the prestige which he had lost.

An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the difficult task which Pauline had assumed, and would have thought that nothing more could be expected of her than to keep sacred her marriage-vows.  But the countess was not an ordinary woman.  Full of resignation, she meant to do more than her duty.

Fortunately, a cradle standing by her bedside made the task somewhat easier.  She had a daughter, her Henrietta; and upon that darling curly head she built a thousand castles in the air.  From that moment she roused herself from the languor to which she had given way for nearly two years, and set to work to study the count with that amazing sagacity which a high stake is apt to give.

A remark accidentally made by her husband cast a new light upon her fate.  One morning, when they had finished breakfast, he said,—­

“Ah!  Nancy was very fond of you.  The day before she died, when she knew she was going, she made me promise her to marry you.”

This Nancy was the count’s former housekeeper.

After this awkward speech, the poor countess saw clearly enough what position that woman had really held at the castle.  She understood how, modestly keeping in the background, and sheltering herself under the very humility of her position, she had been in truth the intellect, the energy, and the strong will, of her master.  Her influence over him had, besides, been so powerful, that it had survived her, and that she had been obeyed even in the grave.