tter was not obliged to feign the
indisposition she had planned; the sensations of this sleepless night
had paled her cheeks and altered her features; it would have been
difficult to imagine a more complete contrast than that between these
two young women at this moment. Clemence, lying upon her bed motionless
and white as the sheet which covered her, resembled Juliet sleeping in
her tomb; Aline, rosy, vivacious, and more petulant than usual, looked
very much the madcap Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had reproached her with
being. Her face was full of that still childish grace, more lovely than
calm, more pleasing than impressive, which makes young girls so charming
to the eye but less eloquent to the heart; for are they not fresh
flowers more rich in coloring than in perfume?

Clemence could hardly stifle a sigh as she gazed at those rosy checks,
those sparkling eyes, that life so full of the rich future. She recalled
a time when she was thus, when grief glided over her cheeks without
paling them, when tears dried as they left her eyes; she also had had
her happy, careless days, her dreams of unalloyed bliss.

Aline, after presenting her face like a child who asks for a
kiss, wished to tease her as usual, but, with a tired gesture, her
sister-in-law begged for mercy.

"Are you ill?" asked the young girl anxiously, as she seated herself
upon the edge of the bed.

Madame de Bergenheim smiled, a forced smile.

"Thank me for my poor health," said she, "for it obliges you to do the
honors; I shall doubtless not be able to go down to dinner, and you must
take my place. You know that it tires my aunt to have to trouble herself
about others."

Aline made a little grimace as she replied:

"If I thought you were speaking seriously, I would go and get into my
own bed at once!"

"Child! will you not in your turn be mistress of a home? Is it not
necessary for you to become accustomed to it? It is an excellent
opportunity, and, with my aunt as a guide, you are sure to acquit
yourself well."

These last words were spoken rather maliciously, for the young woman
knew that of all the possible mentors, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was
the one whom Aline dreaded most.

"I beg of you, my kind sister," replied the girl, clasping her hands,
"do not be ill to-day. Is it the neuralgia of the day before yesterday
you are suffering from? Do be a good sister, and get up and come and
take a walk in the park; the fresh air will cure you, I a