row windows, three in number, were open; the sunlight poured in
through half-closed jalousies and fell in bars on the shining parquet,
and on a little table daintily laid for the morning meal and gay with
flowers. In the cooler and darker parts of the room stood high-backed
chairs littered with a dozen articles which spoke of a woman's presence;
here a fan and silk hood, there a half-mended glove. As the young man's
eyes fell on these, and he drank in the airy brightness and even luxury
of the room, he felt a strange pang of regret and misery. Such things
were no longer for him. Such prettinesses no longer formed part of his
life. And then he turned, and in an instant forgot his unhappiness and
his loss in the sight of a young girl who, seated a little aside, had
risen at his entrance and now stood facing him, her back to the light.

He had been warned; yet he stood thunderstruck, breathless, staring. His
eyes grew large, his jaw fell, the room for a moment went round with
him. The likeness of the woman before him to his dead wife was so
strong, so complete, so astonishing, that involuntarily, not knowing
what he did, he held out his hands.

"Corinne!" he muttered, his voice full of tears. "Corinne!"

The girl, who but for the ravages of ill-health would have been very
beautiful, did not answer; nevertheless she seemed scarcely less
affected by his sudden appearance and his strange address. She swayed on
her feet, and had she not grasped a chair would have fallen. A burning
flush for an instant lit up her wan cheek, to disappear at the first
sound of her father's voice. He had followed Bercy into the room, and
his tone was sharp with reproof and warning.

"Citizen Perrot," he said sternly, "this is my daughter Claire. Here is
your place. Be seated, if you please."

The Vicomte mechanically did as he was told without looking where he
sat. His hands shook, his brain was on fire. He had eyes only for the
girl; who was so wondrously, so completely, like his wife. She had taken
her seat with some timidity at the other side of the table, and if she
no longer betrayed the same emotion, her eyes were downcast, the colour
fluttered in her cheeks. It was in vain that Mirande shot angry glances
at her--and at him. The young man stared as one enchanted, seeing only
the white-robed figure seated between himself and the sunlight, that,
shining through her dark hair, found golden threads in it, and crowned
the face he knew so well