of a statue, while a small, diamond coronet glistened on her black hair
like a milky way.

When he had looked at her for some time, Bernard Grandin replied with a
jocular accent of sincere conviction: "You may well call her beautiful."
"How old do you think she is?" "Wait a moment. I can tell you exactly,
for I have known her since she was a child, and I saw her make her
_debut_ into society when she was quite a girl. She is ... she is ...
thirty ... thirty-six." "Impossible!" "I am sure of it." "She looks
twenty-five." "She has had seven children." "It is incredible." "And
what is more, they are all seven alive, as she is a very good mother. I
go to the house, which is a very quiet and pleasant one, occasionally,
and she realizes the phenomenon of the family in the midst of the
world." "How very strange! And have there never been any reports about
her?" "Never." "But what about her husband? He is peculiar, is he not?"

"Yes, and no. Very likely there has been a little drama between them,
one of those little domestic dramas which one suspects, which one never
finds out exactly, but which one guesses pretty nearly." "What is it?"
"I do not know anything about it. Mascaret leads a very fast life now,
after having been a model husband. As long as he remained a good spouse,
he had a shocking temper and was crabbed and easily took offense, but
since he has been leading his present, rackety life, he has become quite
indifferent; but one would guess that he has some trouble, a worm
gnawing somewhere, for he has aged very much."

Thereupon the two friends talked philosophically for some minutes about
the secret, unknowable troubles, which differences of character or
perhaps physical antipathies, which were not perceived at first, give
rise to in families, and then Roger de Salnis, who was still looking at