ow did not
understand, and confessed things----"

"He was an impertinent fool!" said Madame d'Espard in a hard tone.

The judge's wife kept silence on hearing this sentence.

"Though we failed in the matter of the Commission in Lunacy, it was not
Camusot's fault, I shall never forget that," said the Marquise after
a pause. "It was Lucien, Monsieur de Serizy, Monsieur de Bauvan, and
Monsieur de Granville who overthrew us. With time God will be on my
side; all those people will come to grief.--Be quite easy, I will send
the Chevalier d'Espard to the Keeper of the Seals that he may desire
your husbands's presence immediately, if that is of any use."

"Oh! madame----"

"Listen," said the Marquise. "I promise you the ribbon of the Legion
of Honor at once--to-morrow. It will be a conspicuous testimonial of
satisfaction with your conduct in this affair. Yes, it implies further
blame on Lucien; it will prove him guilty. Men do not commonly hang
themselves for the pleasure of it.--Now, good-bye, my pretty dear----"

Ten minutes later Madame Camusot was in the bedroom of the beautiful
Diane de Maufrigneuse, who had not gone to bed till one, and at nine
o'clock had not yet slept.

However insensible duchesses may be, even these women, whose hearts
are of stone, cannot see a friend a victim to madness without being
painfully impressed by it.

And besides, the connection between Diane and Lucien, though at an end
now eighteen months since, had left such memories with the Duchess that
the poor boy's disastrous end had been to her also a fearful blow. All
night Diane had seen visions of the beautiful youth, so charming,
so poetical, who had been so delightful a lover--painted as Leontine
depicted him, with the vividness of wild delirium. She had letters from
Lucien that she had kept, intoxicating letters worthy to compare with
Mirabeau's to Sophie, but more literary, more elaborate, for Lucien's
letters had been dictated by the most powerful of passions--Vanity.
Having the most bewitching of duchesses for his mistress, and seeing her
commit any folly for him--secret follies, of course--had turned Lucien's
head with happiness. The lover's pride had inspired the poet. And the
Duchess had treasured these touching letters, as some old men keep
indecent prints, for the sake of their extravagant praise of all that
was least duchess-like in her nature.

"And he died in a squalid prison!" cried she to herself, putting the
letters a