was dazzled by her jewels
and her importance. But time passed, and she was roughly treated, her
every wish thwarted, and her very servants taught to disobey her. Her
angelic behaviour had no effect upon her brutal husband; her patience
exasperated him. Wickedly he exposed her to temptation; and as he
watched her mingle with those of her own age, and share their plans
and pleasures, suspicion entered his mind. He removed her far from her
friends, and intercepted her letters, making himself master of their
contents, until by a series of persecutions he drove her to fly from
him, and perish in the attempt.

Well for him was it that Monsieur de Vaissiere witnessed this play.
How different might have been the effect of his newly awakened
emotions, had they risen in the solitude of his apartment. The curtain
fell, and Pauline looked up. Tears were standing in her eyes--for the
fate of the heroine of the piece had affected her deeply, and her
husband's sympathy was with her when he remarked them. He waited until
he saw her give her arm to the vicomte, and walked behind them,
another creature. He had determined to win his wife's love or die; to
watch her, that he might warn her; to minister forever to her
comforts.

The vicomte returned with them, and soon the splendid salon was
crowded with guests. Pauline passed from one to the other with
graceful, winning smiles; and her husband's heart filled with pride
and pleasure as he watched her, the object of admiration, glittering
with diamonds, radiant with beauty, and remembered that she was his.
Without a pang he saw the noble youth, whose coming had been to him
salvation, lead her to supper, and seat himself at her side. He knew
that she was pleased; he felt that she might have loved; but he knew,
too, that she was as pure as an angel. How was it that suddenly her
many virtues rose in array before him, and spoke to his heart?

One evening Pauline stood at the window overlooking the garden that
was behind the Hotel de Vaissiere. The moonlight was glancing over the
tops of the orange trees, and the perfume of their white blossoms came
floating up like an incense of thanks to the Great Author of all,
while fountains played beneath their shade, falling musically on the
heart of the lonely watcher.

A shade was upon her brow--a shade of discontent; and busy were the
thoughts that came creeping into her soul. She was judging her own
heart--and bitterly did she reproach it as the