h bitterness of soul, for a
long time past.

"So you miss that melancholy personage, do you? I have heard most
extraordinary things of him. Wound his feelings, he never comes back,
he forgives nothing; and, if you love him, he keeps you in chains. To
everything that I said of him, one of those that praise him sky-high
would always answer, 'He knows how to love!' People are always telling
me that Montriveau would give up all for his friend; that his is a great
nature. Pooh! society does not want such tremendous natures. Men of that
stamp are all very well at home; let them stay there and leave us to our
pleasant littlenesses. What do you say, Antoinette?"

Woman of the world though she was, the Duchess seemed agitated, yet she
replied in a natural voice that deceived her fair friend:

"I am sorry to miss him. I took a great interest in him, and promised
to myself to be his sincere friend. I like great natures, dear friend,
ridiculous though you may think it. To give oneself to a fool is a clear
confession, is it not, that one is governed wholly by one's senses?"

Mme de Serizy's "preferences" had always been for commonplace men; her
lover at the moment, the Marquis d'Aiglemont, was a fine, tall man.

After this, the Countess soon took her departure, you may be sure Mme
de Langeais saw hope in Armand's withdrawal from the world; she wrote to
him at once; it was a humble, gentle letter, surely it would bring him
if he loved her still. She sent her footman with it next day. On the
servant's return, she asked whether he had given the letter to M. de
Montriveau himself, and could not restrain the movement of joy at the
affirmative answer. Armand was in Paris! He stayed alone in his house;
he did not go out into society! So she was loved! All day long she
waited for an answer that never came. Again and again, when impatience
grew unbearable, Antoinette found reasons for his delay. Armand felt
embarrassed; the reply would come by post; but night came, and she could
not deceive herself any longer. It was a dreadful day, a day of pain
grown sweet, of intolerable heart-throbs, a day when the heart squanders
the very forces of life in riot.

Next day she sent for an answer.

"M. le Marquis sent word that he would call on Mme la Duchesse,"
reported Julien.

She fled lest her happiness should be seen in her face, and flung
herself on her couch to devour her first sensations.

"He is coming!"

The thought rent her soul. An