of the close of April, issued a sensation of damp despite the great logs
burning on the hearth. The sun never shone down into the room; in the
daytime it was dimly lit up by a faint greenish light, but at night,
when the lamps and the chandelier were burning, it looked merely a
serious old chamber with its massive mahogany First Empire furniture,
its hangings and chair coverings of yellow velvet, stamped with a
large design. Entering it, one was in an atmosphere of cold dignity, of
ancient manners, of a vanished age, the air of which seemed devotional.

Opposite the armchair, however, in which the count's mother had died--a
square armchair of formal design and inhospitable padding, which stood
by the hearthside--the Countess Sabine was seated in a deep and cozy
lounge, the red silk upholsteries of which were soft as eider down. It
was the only piece of modern furniture there, a fanciful item introduced
amid the prevailing severity and clashing with it.

"So we shall have the shah of Persia," the young woman was saying.

They were talking of the crowned heads who were coming to Paris for the
exhibition. Several ladies had formed a circle round the hearth, and Mme
du Joncquoy, whose brother, a diplomat, had just fulfilled a mission in
the East, was giving some details about the court of Nazr-ed-Din.

"Are you out of sorts, my dear?" asked Mme Chantereau, the wife of an
ironmaster, seeing the countess shivering slightly and growing pale as
she did so.

"Oh no, not at all," replied the latter, smiling. "I felt a little cold.
This drawing room takes so long to warm."