grew up he married her. Their married life was peaceful
and pleasant; in spite of the great difference in their ages, he had
unbounded confidence in her, and she deserved it.

Married people do not live in such close communion in France as they
do with us; so that their claims upon each other are not so great, and
their disappointments are less bitter.

She was not happy, but contented. Her character lent itself to
gratitude. She did not feel the tedium of wealth; on the contrary, she
often took an almost childish pleasure in it. But no one could guess
that, for her bearing was always full of dignity and repose. People
suspected that there was something questionable about her origin, but as
no one could answer questions they left off asking them. One has so much
else to think of in Paris.

She had forgotten her past. She had forgotten it just as we
have forgotten the roses, the ribbons, and faded letters of our
youth--because we never think about them. They lie locked up in a drawer
which we never open. And yet, if we happen now and again to cast a
glance into this secret drawer, we at once notice if a single one of the
roses, or the least bit of ribbon, is wanting. For we remember them all
to a nicety; the memories are ran fresh as ever--as sweet as ever, and
as bitter.

It was thus she had forgotten her past--locked it up and thrown away the
key.

But at night she sometimes dreamed frightful things. She could once more
feel the old witch with whom she lived shaking her by the shoulder, and
driving her out in the cold mornings to work at her artificial flowers.

Then she would jump up in her bed, and stare out into the darkness in
the most deadly fear. But presently she would touch the silk coverlet
and the soft pillows; her fingers would follow the rich carvings of her
luxurious bed; and while sleepy little child-angels slowly drew aside
the heavy dream-curtain, she tasted in deep draughts the peculiar,
indescribable well-being we feel when we discover that an evil and
horrible dream was a dream and nothing more.

*****

Leaning back among the soft cushions, she drove to the great ball at
the Russian ambassador's. The nearer they got to their destination the
slower became the pace, until the carriage reached the regular queue,
where it dragged on at a foot-pace.

In the wide square in front of the hotel, brilliantly lighted with
torches and with gas, a great crowd of people had gathered. Not only
passers-b