on of July he has disappeared from the political stage."

"Do you remember, Monsieur de Lora," said the Consul-General, "having
seen me going to the steamboat with----"

"A white-haired man! an old man?" said the painter.

"An old man of forty-five, going in search of health and amusement in
Southern Italy. That old man was my poor friend, my patron, passing
through Genoa to take leave of me and place his will in my hands.
He appoints me his son's guardian. I had no occasion to tell him of
Honorine's wishes."

"Does he suspect himself of murder?" said Mademoiselle des Touches to
the Baron de l'Hostal.

"He suspects the truth," replied the Consul, "and that is what is
killing him. I remained on board the steam packet that was to take him
to Naples till it was out of the roadstead; a small boat brought me
back. We sat for some little time taking leave of each other--for ever,
I fear. God only knows how much we love the confidant of our love when
she who inspired it is no more.

"'That man,' said Octave, 'holds a charm and wears an aureole.' the
Count went to the prow and looked down on the Mediterranean. It happened
to be fine, and, moved no doubt by the spectacle, he spoke these last
words: 'Ought we not, in the interests of human nature, to inquire
what is the irresistible power which leads us to sacrifice an exquisite
creature to the most fugitive of all pleasures, and in spite of our
reason? In my conscience I heard cries. Honorine was not alone in her
anguish. And yet I would have it!... I am consumed by remorse. In the
Rue Payenne I was dying of the joys I had not; now I shall die in Italy
of the joys I have had.... Wherein lay the discord between two natures,
equally noble, I dare assert?'"

For some minutes profound silence reigned on the terrace.

Then the Consul, turning to the two women, asked, "Was she virtuous?"

Mademoiselle des Touches rose, took the Consul's arm, went a few steps
away, and said to him:

"Are not men wrong too when they come to us and make a young girl a wife
while cherishing at the bottom of their heart some angelic image, and
comparing us to those unknown rivals, to perfections often borrowed from
a remembrance, and always finding us wanting?"

"Mademoiselle, you would be right if marriage were based on passion; and
that was the mistake of those two, who will soon be no more. Marriage
with heart-deep love on both sides would be Paradise."

Mademoiselle des Touches turned fro