from confiding them to her "dear little husband." Her genuine
simplicity had not invented any other name for him; for one can't call
up in cold blood that delightfully exaggerated language which love
imparts to its victims in the midst of flames.

Vandenesse, glad of this adorable reserve, kept his wife, by
deliberate calculations, in the temperate regions of conjugal
affection. He never condescended to seek a reward or even an
acknowledgment of the infinite pains which he gave himself; his wife
thought his luxury and good taste her natural right, and she felt no
gratitude for the fact that her pride and self-love had never
suffered. It was thus in everything. Kindness has its mishaps; often
it is attributed to temperament; people are seldom willing to
recognize it as the secret effort of a noble soul.

About this period of her life, Madame Felix de Vandenesse had attained
to a degree of worldly knowledge which enabled her to quit the
insignificant role of a timid, listening, and observing supernumerary,
--a part played, they say, for some time, by Giulia Grisi in the
chorus at La Scala. The young countess now felt herself capable of
attempting the part of prima-donna, and she did so on several
occasions. To the great satisfaction of her husband, she began to
mingle in conversations. Intelligent ideas and delicate observations
put into her mind by her intercourse with her husband, made her
remarked upon, and success emboldened her. Vandenesse, to whom the
world admitted that his wife was beautiful, was delighted when the
same assurance was given that she was clever and witty. On their
return from a ball, concert, or rout where Marie had shone
brilliantly, she would turn to her husband, as she took off her
ornaments, and say, with a joyous, self-assured air,--