admittance to the boudoir of the famous coquette, who was never
visible till that hour. Madame de Sommervieux had not yet seen any of
the ancient and magnificent mansions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. As
she made her way through the stately corridors, the handsome
staircases, the vast drawing-rooms--full of flowers, though it was in
the depth of winter, and decorated with the taste peculiar to women
born to opulence or to the elegant habits of the aristocracy,
Augustine felt a terrible clutch at her heart; she coveted the secrets
of an elegance of which she had never had an idea; she breathed in an
air of grandeur which explained the attraction of the house for her
husband. When she reached the private rooms of the Duchess she was
filled with jealousy and a sort of despair, as she admired the
luxurious arrangement of the furniture, the draperies and the
hangings. Here disorder was a grace, here luxury affected a certain
contempt of splendor. The fragrance that floated in the warm air
flattered the sense of smell without offending it. The accessories of
the rooms were in harmony with a view, through plate-glass windows, of
the lawns in a garden planted with evergreen trees. It was all
bewitching, and the art of it was not perceptible. The whole spirit of
the mistress of these rooms pervaded the drawing-room where Augustine
awaited her. She tried to divine her rival's character from the aspect
of the scattered objects; but there was here something as impenetrable
in the disorder as in the symmetry, and to the simple-minded young
wife all was a sealed letter. All that she could discern was that, as
a woman, the Duchess was a superior person. Then a painful thought
came over her.

"Alas! And is it true," she wondered, "that a simple and loving heart
is not all-sufficient to an artist; that to balance the weight of
these powerful souls they need a union with feminine souls of a