went early to bed.

As I passed the door of the Countess' room on the way to my
night's lodging, I asked the servant timidly for news of her. She
heard my voice, and would have me come in, and tried to talk, but
in vain--she could not utter a sound. She bent her head, and I
withdrew. In spite of the painful agitation, which I had felt to
the full as youth can feel, I fell asleep, tired out with my
forced march.

It was late in the night when I was awakened by the grating sound
of curtain rings drawn sharply over the metal rods. There sat the
Countess at the foot of my bed. The light from a lamp set on my
table fell full upon her face.

"Is it really true, monsieur, quite true?" she asked. "I do not
know how I can live after that awful blow which struck me down a
little while since; but just now I feel calm. I want to know
everything."

"What calm!" I said to myself as I saw the ghastly pallor of her
face contrasting with her brown hair, and heard the guttural
tones of her voice. The havoc wrought in her drawn features
filled me with dumb amazement.

Those few hours had bleached her; she had lost a woman's last
glow of autumn color. Her eyes were red and swollen, nothing of
their beauty remained, nothing looked out of them save her bitter
and exceeding grief; it was as if a gray cloud covered the place
through which the sun had shone.