from its sleek, smooth plaits, and now hung like a veil of gold on her shoulders.  She looked closely at herself in the glass, and her face looked worn and haggard in the dim light.  A pungent acrid odour permeated the room, and the heavy velvet curtains moved with subdued rustlings as the wind stole in through the window.  On a table near her was a portrait of Vandeloup, which he had given Madame two days before, and though she could not see the face she knew it was his.  Stretching out her hand she took the photograph from its stand, and sank into a low chair which stood at the end of the room some distance from the bed.  So noiseless were her movements that the two sleepers never awoke, and the girl sat in the chair with the portrait in her hand dreaming of the man whom it represented.  She knew his handsome face was smiling up at her out of the glimmering gloom, and clenched her hands in anger as she thought how he had treated her.  She let the portrait fall on her lap, and leaning back in the chair, with all her golden hair showering down loosely over her shoulders, gave herself up to reflection.

He was going to marry Madame Midas—­the man who had ruined her life; he would hold another woman in his arms and tell her all the false tales he had told her.  He would look into her eyes with his own, and she would be unable to see the treachery and guile hidden in their depths.  She could not stand it.  False friend, false lover, he had been, but to see him married to another—­no! it was too much.  And yet what could she do?  A woman in love believes no ill of the man she adores, and if she was to tell Madame Midas all she would not be believed.  Ah! it was useless to fight against fate, it was too strong for her, so she would have to suffer in silence, and see them happy.  That story of Hans Andersen’s, which she had read, about the little mermaid who danced, and felt that swords were wounding her feet while the prince smiled on his bride—­yes, that was her case.  She would have to stand by in silence and see him caressing another woman, while every caress would stab her like a sword.  Was there no way of stopping it?  Ah! what is that?  The poison—­no! no! anything but that.  Madame had been kind to her, and she could not repay her trust with treachery.  No, she was not weak enough for that.  And yet suppose Madame died? no one could tell she had been poisoned, and then she could marry Vandeloup.  Madame was sleeping in yonder bed, and on the table there was a glass with some liquid in it.  She would only have to go to her room, fetch the poison, and put it in there—­ then retire to bed.  Madame would surely drink during the night, and then—­yes, there was only one way—­the poison!