daughters, younger, girls still, at a convent.

The duchess is alone at the castle. She is sitting in a large boudoir,
built out with a triangular loggia, and looking over the park, the
basins, the deer. A breeze is blowing outside; and the rapid clouds,
which, like flaky spectres, like rags hidden beneath diaphanous veils,
chase one another through the clear blue sky, trail their shadows, like
quick eclipses, across the park, just tinting it with passing darkness,
which darkens the deer in their turn and then makes them gleam brown
again in the sun. It is silent outside; it is silent in the castle. The
castle stands secluded; within, the servants move softly through the
reception-rooms and corridors, speaking in whispers, in expectation of
the august visitors.

Lunch is over. The duchess lies half-out-stretched on a couch and gazes
at the deer. She is not yet dressed and wears a tea-gown, loose, with
many folds: _vieux rose broche_, salmon-coloured plush and old lace.
When she is alone, she likes plenty of light, from a healthy need of
space and air; the curtains are drawn aside from the tall bow-windows
and the shrillness of the spring sky comes streaming in. But the light
does not suit her beauty; for, though her hair is still raven black, her
complexion has the dullness of faded white roses; her eyes, which can be
beautiful, large, liquid and dark, look full of lassitude, encircled
with pale-yellow shadows; and very clearly visible are the little
wrinkles at the side, the little grooves etched around the delicate
nose, the lines that have lengthened the mouth and draw it down.

The duchess rises slowly; she passes through a door that leads to her
bedroom and dressing-room and stays away for a few moments. Then she
returns; in both hands, pressing it to her, with difficulty, she carries
an obviously heavy casket and sets it on the table in front of the
couch. The casket is of old wrought silver enriched with gilt chasing
and great blue turquoises, of that costly renascence work which is not
made nowadays. She selects a little straight, gold key from her bracelet
and unlocks the casket. The jewels glisten--pearls, brilliants,
sapphires, emeralds--and catch in their facets all the spring light of
the sky, blue, white and yellow. But the duchess presses a spring
unclosing a secret drawer, from which she takes two packets of letters
and some photographs.

The photographs all show the face of a man no longer young, a