ings.

Paris is full of such fallen stars, extinguished by the crowd.

Some of these famous ones, these conquerors of a former day, cherish a
rage in their heart; others, on the contrary, enjoy the past blissfully,
digest in an ineffable content all their glorious and ended joys, asking
only repose, silence, shadow, good enough for memory and contemplations,
so that when they die people are quite astonished to learn that they had
been still living.

Constance Crenmitz was among these fortunate ones. The household of
these two women was a curious one. Both were childlike, placing side by
side in a common domain, inexperience and ambition, the tranquility of
an accomplished destiny and the fever of a life plunged in struggle,
all the different qualities manifest even in the serene style of dress
affected by this blonde who seemed all white like a faded rose,
with something beneath her bright colours that vaguely suggested the
footlights, and that brunette with the regular features, who almost
always clothed her beauty in dark materials, simple in fold, a
semblance, as it were, of virility.

Things unforeseen, caprices, ignorance of even the least important
details, led to an extreme disorder in the finances of the household,
disorder which was only rectified by dint of privations, by the
dismissal of servants, by reforms that were laughable in their
exaggeration. During one of these crises, Jenkins had made veiled
delicate offers, which, however, were repulsed with contempt by Felicia.

"It is not nice of you," Constance would remark to her, "to be so
hard on the poor doctor. After all, there was nothing offensive in his
suggestion. An old friend of your father."

"He, any one's friend! Ah, the hypocrite!"

And Felicia, hardly able to contain herself, would give an ironical turn
to her wrath, imitating Jenkins with his oily manner and his hand on his
heart; then, puffing out her cheeks, she would say in a loud, deep voice
full of lying unction:

"Let us be humane, let us be kind. To do good without hope of reward!
That is the whole point."

Constance used to laugh till the tears came, in spite of herself. The
resemblance was so perfect.

"All the same, you are too hard. You will end by driving him away
altogether."

"Little fear of that," a shake of the girl's head would reply.

In effect he always came back, pleasant, amiable, dissimulating his
passion, which was visible only when it grew jealous of newcom