roll up and away, and gaze at the windows whence the candles blazing in the
chandeliers shone down upon them, and behind whose panes they saw in swift
alternation so many gold-embroidered uniforms, so many showy ball dresses.

As has been said, it was a brilliant entertainment and the Baroness de
Simonie might well be content with it; for though the hostess she had also
been its queen. Every one, French as well as Austrians, Russians and
Italians, Hungarians and Poles, had offered her enthusiastic homage; had
expressed in glowing encomiums their greatful thanks for the magnificent
festival she had given.

She had been radiant, too, in grace and beauty yesterday evening. The
gayest jests were throned upon her scarlet lips, the proudest light had
sparkled in her large black eyes, the most radiant roses of youth had
bloomed on her delicate cheeks, and the long black tresses which, with
wonderful luxuriance, encircled her high white brow, had been to many the
Armida nets in which their hearts were prisoned.

But to-day, on the morning after this festival, all that was left of the
brilliant queen of the ball was a pale, exhausted young woman, who lay on
the divan with a sorrowful expression in her eyes, while ever and anon deep
sighs of pain escaped from her breast.

She was in her boudoir, whose equipments displayed French luxury and taste.
Everything about her bore the appearance of wealth, happiness, and
pleasure, yet her face was sad--yet Leonore de Simonie sighed--yet her lips
sometimes murmured words of lamentation, satiety, even bitter suffering.
But suddenly a ray of delight flitted over her face; a happy smile
brightened her pale features; and this was when, among the many letters the
servant had just brought to her, she discovered the little note which she