ishment.

"'In Count Octave's,' I replied. 'You have been tricked. M. Lenormand,
the usher of the Court, is not the real owner; he is only a screen for
your husband. The delightful seclusion you enjoy is the Count's work,
the money you earn is paid by him, and his protection extends to the
most trivial details of your existence. Your husband has saved you
in the eyes of the world; he has assigned plausible reasons for your
disappearance; he professes to hope that you were not lost in the wreck
of the _Cecile_, the ship in which you sailed for Havana to secure the
fortune to be left to you by an old aunt, who might have forgotten
you; you embarked, escorted by two ladies of her family and an old
man-servant. The Count says that he has sent agents to various spots,
and received letters which give him great hopes. He takes as many
precautions to hide you from all eyes as you take yourself. In short, he
obeys you...'

"'That is enough,' she said. 'I want to know but one thing more. From
whom have you obtained all these details?'

"'Well, madame, my uncle got a place for a penniless youth as secretary
to the Commissary of police in this part of Paris. That young man told
me everything. If you leave this house this evening, however stealthily,
your husband will know where you are gone, and his care will follow
you everywhere.--How could a woman so clever as you are believe that
shopkeepers buy flowers and caps as dear as they sell them? Ask
a thousand crowns for a bouquet, and you will get it. No mother's
tenderness was ever more ingenious than your husband's! I have learned
from the porter of this house that the Count often comes behind the
fence when all are asleep, to see the glimmer of your nightlight! Your
large cashmere shawl cost six thousand francs--your old-clothes-seller
brings you, as second hand, things fresh from the best makers. In short,
you are living here like Venus in the toils of Vulcan; but you are alone
in your prison by the devices of a sublime magnanimity, sublime for
seven years past, and at every hour.'

"The Countess was trembling as a trapped swallow trembles while, as you
hold it in your hand, it strains its neck to look about it with wild
eyes. She shook with a nervous spasm, studying me with a defiant look.
Her dry eyes glittered with a light that was almost hot: still, she
was a woman! The moment came when her tears forced their way, and she
wept--not because she was touched, but because she