the most elegant boudoir on the Chaussee d'Antin,
and thrown, still frightened, into the midst of this strange assembly.

"You are crazy, Clemence, to leave that window open!" said at this
moment an old voice issuing from an armchair placed in a corner near the
fireplace.

The person who broke the charm of this silent scene was a woman of sixty
or seventy years of age, according to the gallantry of the calculator.
It was easy to judge that she was tall and thin as she lay, rather
than sat, in her chair with its back lowered down. She was dressed in a
yellowish-brown gown. A false front as black as jet, surmounted by a
cap with poppy-colored ribbons, framed her face. She had sharp, withered
features, and the brilliancy of her primitive freshness had been
converted into a blotched and pimpled complexion which affected above
all her nose and cheek-bones, but whose ardor had been dimmed only a
trifle by age. There was something about the whole face as crabbed,
sour, and unkind as if she had daily bathed it in vinegar. One could
read old maid in every feature! Besides, a slight observation of her
ways would have destroyed all lingering doubt in this respect.

A large, coffee-colored pug-dog was lying before the fire. This
interesting animal served as a footstool for his mistress, stretched in
her easy-chair, and recalled to mind the lions which sleep at the
foot of chevaliers in their Gothic tombs. As a pug-dog and an old maid
pertain to each other, it was only necessary, in order to divine this
venerable lady's state, to read the name upon the golden circlet which
served as a collar for the dog: "Constance belongs to Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil."

Before the younger lady, who was leaning upon the back of a chair,
seeming to breathe with difficulty, had time to reply, she received a
second injunction.

"But, aunt," said she, at last, "it was a horrible crash! Did you not
hear it?"

"I am not so deaf as that yet," replied the old maid. "Shut that window;
do you not know that currents of air attract lightning?"

Clemence obeyed, dropping the curtain to shut out the flashes of
lightning which continued to dart through the heavens; she then
approached the fireplace.

"Since you are so afraid of lightning," said her aunt; "which, by the
way, is perfectly ridiculous in a Corandeuil, what induced you to go out
upon the balcony? The sleeve of your gown is wet. That is the way one
gets cold; afterward, there is nothing but