Auguste was ravished at Mademoiselle's
condescension. She was truly charming; her
boudoir was delicious, Mademoiselle herself
was perfectly idéale, and was the realisation
of all M. Auguste's dreams of female
perfection: compliments paid with the
profoundest reverence, but with an exaltation
of feeling that bewildered poor Harriet. A
neglected daughter, shut up in a remote
country village in the west of England, her
independence gained only when her first
youth had fled—it was no wonder that these
new and strange devotions bewildered and
unsettled her. A kind of startled gratitude,
gratified vanity and personal
admiration—for M. Auguste was exceedingly
handsome—made up together a feeling which
the world calls love, and which she herself
mistook for the same.

Up to a certain point in their intercourse
nothing could be more delightful than M.
Auguste. The refinement and spirituality of
his tone and conversation completed the charm
which his wonderful knowledge of the human
heart, and his good looks had begun; and
Harriet was desperately in love—much to the
edification of her maid, who watched that she
might take lessons. Flowers, gifts, pleasures
of all kinds were showered fast and thick on
the Englishwoman's path, and perpetual
sunshine was over her. Poor Mademoiselle
Henriette in her weary past had never dreamed
of such happiness.

One day Harriet had bought a large
bunch of lilies of the valley, and placed
them in the vase from which she took M.
Auguste's last and now decidedly faded
bouquet. These were very simple acts. No
one would have thought them stormseeds
sown broadcast. M. Auguste called.
His eye glanced to the lilies before it saw
the smiling face eager to greet him. His
countenance changed; his address was cool,
constrained, and distressingly polite. Harriet
could not understand this; and, at first, was
too timid to ask; for she dreaded bad news of
his own affairs or some terrible catastrophe.
At last she did summon up courage enough.
M. Auguste smiled gloomily. He pointed to
the vase and bit out a few words spitefully,
in which Harriet distinguished " un autre—
prétendant—infâme—scélérat—trahi—triché
—adieu Madame." Not very intelligible to
the innocent Englishwoman, who did not see
any infamy or treachery in a handful of lilies
of the valley bought by herself for twelve sous
at the Madeleine. After a time he condescended
to be more explicit; and then he expressed
his conviction that another Monsieur—one of
Mademoiselle's milor friends doubtless—had
given her this bouquet to replace his own—
that his was not choice, not rich enough for
Mademoiselle's taste—he apologized for its
poverty; but he was only a poor Frenchman
with a heart—he must leave the means and
the power to make Mademoiselle happy to
her rich compatriots, with a good deal more.
And then he ended by taking up his hat and
gloves and saying in a tragic voice, " Adieu
for ever!" Of course that storm blew over
and fine weather was restored; but this
was the beginning of long days of jealousy
as groundless and as worthless. Harriet
bore up against them heroically. She was
the essence of good temper to him, and
soothed his waywardness and bore with his
follies, until he himself confessed that her
temper was wonderful, and that he tried
it sorely. However he went too far once.
He was in a bad humour, and he forgot
himself; and then the English pride woke
up; and she called him "Monsieur," and bade
him adieu tearlessly, and never so much as
sighed when he closed the door, as she believed
for ever. But he wrote to her after this, and
apologized for his violence: (it was all because
she had walked in the Tuileries gardens
with a certain relative of hers, who was
too young and well-looking for M. Auguste's
taste; and as Frenchmen cannot understand
the liberty of our unmarried women it was
grand ground for a quarrel). In his letter
he besought a reconciliation with her; who
was the life of his soul, and the star of his
future: promising better things, and the
profoundest confidence in her integrity. So
Harriet relented, and the wheel of love
went round once more. But he never forgot,,
nor wholly forgave her passionate burst of
English pride; and he told her more than
once that Frenchwomen were much more
submissive, and that he did not approve of
this Roman pride, this classic haughtiness,
of the English women. So they quarrelled
again, because he was impertinent and
sarcastic.

The third term had come, even to M.
Auguste and Mademoiselle Henriette.

Quarrels, still healed by love, but becoming
daily more numerous and more fierce, and the
love less powerful in the healing—doubts and
suspicions for ever renewed and passionately
resented—these were the dying throes of the
affair, painful enough to witness. His pride
was now wounded as well as hers: he could
not forgive her strength of will, and she could
not forgive his want of trust. He was
certain, she had deceived him. Yes, Madame—
deceived, betrayed, tricked him—the confiding
French gentleman, the loyal man of honour!
Which indignity Mademoiselle resented in
real earnest. So the matter ended, and
they parted really for ever. Which was the
best thing both could have done, if they
looked to happiness and peace.

Yet M. Auguste was a fine fellow. Brilliant,
generous, witty, kind, brave, romantic,
and not harshly egotistical though
extremely vain. He was a pearl beyond price
among his countrymen, and would have
made any Frenchwoman living, the proudest
and happiest of her sex. For, she would
have yielded to his dictation, and have
managed his jealousy: she would have soothed