hand, and with the other languidly sought his wife's neck for the
usual embrace; but Julie stooped and received the good-night kiss upon
her forehead; the formal, loveless grimace seemed hateful to her at
that moment.

As soon as the door closed upon Victor, his wife sank into a seat. Her
limbs tottered beneath her, she burst into tears. None but those who
have endured the torture of some such scene can fully understand the
anguish that it means, or divine the horror of the long-drawn tragedy
arising out of it.

Those simple, foolish words, the silence that followed between the
husband and wife, the Marquis' gesture and expression, the way in
which he sat before the fire, his attitude as he made that futile
attempt to put a kiss on his wife's throat,--all these things made up
a dark hour for Julie, and the catastrophe of the drama of her sad and
lonely life. In her madness she knelt down before the sofa, burying
her face in it to shut out everything from sight, and prayed to
Heaven, putting a new significance into the words of the evening
prayer, till it became a cry from the depths of her own soul, which
would have gone to her husband's heart if he had heard it.

The following week she spent in deep thought for her future, utterly
overwhelmed by this new trouble. She made a study of it, trying to
discover a way to regain her ascendency over the Marquis, scheming how
to live long enough to watch over her daughter's happiness, yet to
live true to her own heart. Then she made up her mind. She would
struggle with her rival. She would shine once more in society. She
would feign the love which she could no longer feel, she would
captivate her husband's fancy; and when she had lured him into her