sincerity, when I hear nightly certain pious matrons distilling against
them, amid low and vulgar gossip, the venom of the basest envy that can
swell a rural heart. Moreover, it is not always necessary to leave Paris
in order to have the ugly spectacle of these provincials let loose against
what they call vice, namely, youth, elegance, distinction, charm--in a
word, all the qualities which the worthy ladies possess no more, or have
perhaps never possessed.

Nevertheless, with whatever disgust, these chaste vixens inspire me for
the virtue they pretend to uphold (Oh, virtue! how many crimes are
committed in thy name!), I am compelled, to my great regret to agree with
them on one point, and to admit that one of their victims at least gives
an appearance of justice to their reprobation and to their calumnies. The
angel of kindness himself would hide his face in presence of this complete
specimen of dissipation, of turbulence, of futility, and finally of
worldly extravagance that bears the name of Countess de Palme, and the
nickname of the Little Countess; a rather ill-fitting nickname, by the
way, for the lady is not small, but simply slender and lithe. Madame de
Palme is twenty-five years of age; she is a widow; she spends the winter
in Paris with her sister, and the summer in an old Norman manor-house,
with her aunt, Madame de Pontbrian. Let me get rid of the aunt first.

This aunt, who is of very ancient nobility, is particularly noted for the
fervor of her hereditary opinions, and for her strict devotion. Those are
both claims to consideration which I admit fully, so far as I am
concerned. Every solid principle and every sincere sentiment command in
these days a peculiar respect. Unfortunately Madame de Pontbrian seems to
be one of those intensely devout persons who are but very indifferent
Christians. She is one of those who, reducing to a few minor observances,
of which they are ridiculously proud, all the duties of their religious or