harmony with my wishes and their own. When an
increased intimacy brings us all closer together, the party will gain by
that earlier informality. Each life will have been given its normal
pitch and will try at least to keep it. For our souls are such sensitive
instruments that they can rarely strike as much as a true third.

Blanche, with the agate eyes and the cloud of chestnut hair, is a
picture of autumn in the brown and red of her frock, with its bands of
sable. She is listening attentively to Marcienne. The fair Marcienne
herself, whom I love for her passionate pride, is sitting near the
fire-place; and her wonderful profile stands out against the flames. Her
mouth is a fierce red; but the figure which shows through the
pale-coloured tailor-made dress is full of tender childish curves. The
swansdown toque makes her black hair seem blacker still. She is talking
seriously and holding out to the flames her fingers covered with rings.

The wide-open door reveals the darker bedroom, in which the lights are
already turned on. A young married woman is sitting with her elbows on
the table. She is reading a poem in a low voice; and from time to time a
few words, spoken more loudly, mingle with the semi-silence of the other
rooms. Bending under the lamp-shade, her brown hair is bathed in the
light, while her profile is veiled by her hand and the lines of her body
are lost in the dark dress which melts into the shadow. Near her,
leaning against the white wall, two white figures listen and dream.

I see Rose. She is standing, all emerald and gold, in the middle of the
next room. Behind her, a mirror reflects the copper candelabra whose
lighted branches surround her with stars. A placidly-smiling Madonna,
chaste and cold, dazzling and glorious, she talks to the inseparables,
Aurelie and Renee.

Renee, clad in deep mourning, is a delicious little princess of jet,
with lint-white hair and flax-blue irises. Her companion, crowned with
glowing tresses, knows the splendour of her green eyes and, with a
cunning fan-like play of her long eyelids, amuses herself by making them
appear and disappear.

My attention is recalled to the visitor by my side, a young Dutchwoman
not yet quite at home in France. She is shy in speaking and she does not
know my friends. I look at her. Her fair round face is quaintly framed
in the smooth coils of her golden hair. Her eyes are a cloudless blue.
Her nose, which is a little heavy and serious, belies