'That's the terrible little woman who killed her husband.' You may
imagine I promptly asked for an explanation, and he told me--from his
point of view--what he called the whole story. M. de Mauves had fait
quelques folies which his wife had taken absurdly to heart. He had
repented and asked her forgiveness, which she had inexorably refused.
She was very pretty, and severity must have suited her style; for,
whether or no her husband had been in love with her before, he fell
madly in love with her now. He was the proudest man in France, but he
had begged her on his knees to be re-admitted to favour. All in vain!
She was stone, she was ice, she was outraged virtue. People noticed a
great change in him; he gave up society, ceased to care for anything,
looked shockingly. One fine day they discovered he had blown out his
brains. My friend had the story of course from Madame Clairin."

Longmore was strongly moved, and his first impulse after he had
recovered his composure was to return immediately to Europe. But several
years have passed, and he still lingers at home. The truth is that, in
the midst of all the ardent tenderness of his memory of Madame de
Mauves, he has become conscious of a singular feeling--a feeling of
wonder, of uncertainty, of awe.