Her health had declined daily since her return from Touraine; her life
seemed to be measured to her in suffering; yet her ill-health was
graceful, her malady seemed little more than languor, and might well
be taken by careless eyes for a fine lady's whim of invalidism.

Her doctors had condemned her to keep to the sofa, and there among her
flowers lay the Marquise, fading as they faded. She was not strong
enough to walk, nor to bear the open air, and only went out in a
closed carriage. Yet with all the marvels of modern luxury and
invention about her, she looked more like an indolent queen than an
invalid. A few of her friends, half in love perhaps with her sad
plight and her fragile look, sure of finding her at home, and
speculating no doubt upon her future restoration to health, would come
to bring her the news of the day, and kept her informed of the
thousand and one small events which fill life in Paris with variety.
Her melancholy, deep and real though it was was still the melancholy
of a woman rich in many ways. The Marquise d'Aiglemont was like a
flower, with a dark insect gnawing at its root.

Occasionally she went into society, not to please herself, but in
obedience to the exigencies of the position which her husband aspired
to take. In society her beautiful voice and the perfection of her
singing could always gain the social success so gratifying to a young
woman; but what was social success to her, who drew nothing from it
for her heart or her hopes? Her husband did not care for music. And,
moreover, she seldom felt at her ease in salons, where her beauty
attracted homage not wholly disinterested. Her position excited a sort
of cruel compassion, a morbid curiosity. She was suffering from an
inflammatory complaint not infrequently fatal, for which our nosology