g your pardon," they will say, "my part is written here
in the key of 'C' and I sing only in the key of 'G'!" How many men do
not know even the key of 'G' in matters of love! Unfortunately for him,
Bergenheim was one of that number. After three years of married life,
he had not divined the first note in Clemence's character. He decided
in his own mind, at the end of a few months, that she was cold, if
not heartless. This discovery, which ought to have wounded his vanity,
inspired him, on the contrary, with a deeper respect for her; insensibly
this reserve reacted upon himself, for love is a fire whose heat dies
out for want of fuel, and its cooling off is more sudden when the flame
is more on the surface than in the depths.

The revolution of 1830 stopped Christian's career, and gave further
pretexts for temporary absences which only added to the coolness
which already existed between husband and wife. After handing in his
resignation, the Baron fixed his residence at his chateau in the Vosges
mountains, for which he shared the hereditary predilection of his
family. His tastes were in perfect harmony with this dwelling, for he
had quickly become the perfect type of a country gentleman, scorning the
court and rarely leaving his ancestral acres. He was too kind-hearted
to exact that his wife should share his country tastes and retired life.
The unlimited confidence which he had in her, a loyalty which never
allowed him to suppose evil or suspect her, a nature very little
inclined to jealousy, made him allow Clemence the greatest liberty. The
young woman lived at will in Paris with her aunt, or at Bergenheim
with her husband, without a suspicious thought ever entering his head.
Really,--what had he to fear? What wrong could she reproach him with?
Was he not full of kindness and attention toward her? Did he not leave
her mistress of her own fortune, free to do as she liked, to gratify
every caprice? He thus lived upon his faith in the marriage contract,
with unbounded confidence and old-fashioned loyalty.

According to general opinion, Madame de Bergenheim was a very fortunate
woman, to whom virtue must be so easy that it could hardly be called a
merit. Happiness, according to society, consists in a box at the Opera,
a fine carriage, and a husband who pays the bills without frowning. Add
to the above privileges, a hundred thousand francs' worth of diamonds,
and a woman has really no right to dream or to suffer. There are,