able feeling of indignation with Juliette now pervaded Helene,
as though some wrong had been done herself. She felt humiliated for
Henri's sake; she was consumed with jealous rage; and her perturbed
feelings were so plainly mirrored in her face that Mademoiselle
Aurelie asked her: "What is the matter with you? Do you feel ill?"

The old lady had sunk into a seat beside her immediately she had
observed her to be alone. She had conceived a lively friendship for
Helene, and was charmed with the kindly manner in which so sedate and
lovely a woman would listen for hours to her tittle-tattle.

But Helene made no reply. A wild desire sprang up within her to gaze
on Henri, to know what he was doing, and what was the expression of
his face. She sat up, and glancing round the drawing-room, at last
perceived him. He stood talking with a stout, pale man, and looked
completely at his ease, his face wearing its customary refined smile.
She scanned him for a moment, full of a pity which belittled him
somewhat, though all the while she loved him the more with an
affection into which entered some vague idea of watching over him. Her
feelings, still in a whirl of confusion, inspired her with the thought
that she ought to bring him back the happiness he had lost.

"Well, well!" muttered Mademoiselle Aurelie; "it will be pleasant if
Madame de Guiraud's sister favors us with a song. It will be the tenth
time I have heard her sing the 'Turtle-Doves.' That is her stock song
this winter. You know that she is separated from her husband. Do you
see that dark gentleman down there, near the door? They are most
intimate together, I believe. Juliette is compelled to have him here,
for otherwise she wouldn't come!"

"Indeed!" exclaimed Helene.

Madame Deberle was bustling about from one group to another,
requesting silence for a song from Madame de Guiraud's sister. The
drawing-room was now crowded, some thirty ladies being seated in the
centre whispering and laughing together; two, however, had remained
standing, and were talking loudly and shrugging their shoulders in a
pretty way, while five or six men sat quite at home amongst the fair
ones, almost buried beneath the folds of their skirts and trains. A
low "Hush!" ran round the room, the voices died away, and a stolid
look of annoyance crept into every face. Only the fans could be heard
rustling through the heated atmosphere.

Madame de Guiraud's sister sang, but Helene never listened. Her