obstinately against it; nor did he spare his caustic
remarks on Madam Hawtrey, even before her
own daughter. He had never quite forgiven
Duke's marriage, although he was personally
exceedingly fond of Bessy. He referred this
marriage, in some part, and perhaps to no greater
extent than was true, to madam's good management
in throwing the young people together; and
he was explicit in the expression of his opinion.
Poor Theresa! Every day she more and more
bitterly rued her ill-starred marriage. Often
and often she cried to herself, when she was
alone in the dead of the night, " I cannot
bear it—I cannot bear it!" But again in
the daylight her pride would help her to
keep her woe to herself. She could not bear
the gaze of pitying eyes; she could not bear
even Victorine's fierce sympathy. She might
have gone home like a poor prodigal to her
father, if Duke and Bessy had not, as she
imagined, reigned triumphant in her place, both in
her father's heart and in her father's home.
And all this while, that father almost hated the
tender attentions which were rendered to him
by those who were not his Theresa, his only
child, for whose presence he yearned and longed
in silent misery. Then again (to return to
Theresa), her husband had his fits of kindness
towards her. If he had been very fortunate in
play, if he had heard other men admire her, he
would come back for a few moments to his
loyalty, and would lure back the poor tortured
heart, only to crush it afresh. One day—after
a short time of easy temper, caresses, and levity
—she found out something, I know not what, in
his life, which stung her to the quick. Her sharp
wits and sharper tongue spoke out most cutting
insults; at first he smiled, as if rather amused
to see how she was ransacking her brain to find
stabbing speeches; but at length she touched
some sore; he scarcely lost the mocking smile
upon his face, but his eyes flashed lurid fire, and
his heavy closed hand fell on her white shoulder
with a terrible blow!

She stood up, facing him, tearless, deadly
white. "The poor old man at home!" was all
she said, trembling, shivering all over, but with
her eyes fixed on his coward face. He shrank
from her look, laughed aloud to hide whatever
feeling might be hidden in his bosom, and left
the room. She only said again, " The poor old
man—the poor old deserted, desolate man!" and
felt about blindly for a chair.

She had not sat down a minute though, be-
fore she started up and rang her bell. It was
Victorine's office to answer it; but Theresa
looked almost surprised to see her. " You!—I
wanted the others—I want them all! They
shall all see how their master treats his wife!
Look here!" she pushed the gauze neckerchief
from her shoulder—the mark was there red and
swollen. " Bid them all come here Victorine,
Amadée, Jean, Adèle, all—I will be justified by
their testimony, whatever I do!" Then she
fell to shaking and crying.

Victorine said nothing, but went to a certain
cupboard where she kept medicines and drugs
of which she alone knew the properties, and
there she mixed a draught, which she made her
mistress take. Whatever its nature was, it was
soothing. Theresa leaned back in her chair,
still sobbing heavily from time to time, until at
last she dropped into a kind of doze. Then
Victorine softly lifted the neckerchief, which
had fallen into its place, and looked at the mark.
She did not speak; but her whole face was a
fearful threat. After she had looked her fill,
she smiled a deadly smile. And then she
touched the soft bruised flesh with her lips,
much as though Theresa were the child she had
been twenty years ago. Soft as the touch was
Theresa shivered, and started and half awoke.
"Are they come?" she murmured; "Amadée,
Jean, Adèle?" but without waiting for an
answer she fell asleep again.

Victorine went quietly back to the cupboard
where she kept her drugs, and stayed there,
mixing something noiselessly. When she had
done what she wanted, she returned to her
mistress's bedroom, and looked at her, still sleeping.
Then she began to arrange the room. No blue
silk curtains and silver mirrors, now, as in the
Rue Louis le Grand. A washed-out faded Indian
chintz, and an old battered toilette service of
Japan-ware; the disorderly signs of the count's
late presence; an emptied flask of liqueur.

All the time Victorine arranged this room she
kept saying to herself, " At last! At last!"
Theresa slept through the daylight, slept late
into the evening, leaning back where she had
fallen in her chair. She was so motionless that
Victorine appeared alarmed. Once or twice she
felt her pulse, and gazed earnestly into the tear-
stained face. Once, she very carefully lifted one
of the eyelids, and holding a lighted taper near,
peered into the eye. Apparently satisfied, she
went out and ordered a basin of broth to be
ready when she asked for it. Again she sat
in deep silence; nothing stirred in the closed
chamber; but in the street the carriages began
to roll, and the footmen and torch-bearers to cry
aloud their masters' names and titles, to show
what carriage in that narrow street below, was
entitled to precedence. A carriage stopped at
the hotel of which they occupied the third floor.
Then the bell of their apartment rang loudly—
rang violently. Victorine went out to see what
it was that might disturb her darling—as she
called Theresa to herself—her sleeping lady as
she spoke of her to her servants.

She met those servants bringing in their
master, the count, dead. Dead with a sword-
wound received in some infamous struggle.
Victorine stood and looked at him. " Better so,"
she muttered. " Better so. But, monseigneur,
you shall take this with you, whithersoever your
wicked soul is fleeing." And she struck him a
stroke on his shoulder, just where Theresa's
bruise was. It was as light a stroke as well
could be; but this irreverence to the dead called
forth indignation even from the hardened bearers
of the body. Little recked Victorine. She
turned her back on the corpse, went to her
cupboard, took out the mixture she had made