as they went by, with feverish despond

ency.

During the instants that intervened between these various appointments, M. de Biron kept engaging his son-in-law in discussions on politics, money-matters, plans of campaign, and at last proposed to carry him off to the Palais Royal, to take leave of the Regent. He little guessed at the suffering he was inflicting on his daughter. Everyone seemed combining to rob her of those last precious moments, for the quiet enjoyment of which she would have sacrificed whole years of tranquility.

"Alas! alas!" she kept exclaiming, as she sat in expectation of her husband's return, and wrung her hands in anguish, "only two or three more hours happiness (what a strange name to give to what so much resembled misery), and without remorse they deprive me of them."

There was to be that night a ball

at the Luxembourg,

where

she was

engaged to go with her mother and her husband.

"There, at least," she thought, "I shall It is my

speak a few words to him.

last chance, my last hope."

But something better than what she had dared to hope for was in store for the young wife; not a few moments in a crowded ball-room, not a few insignificant words, spoken at hurried intervals, but hours, such as her most sanguine expectations had not ventured to look forward to. Hours, during which she was "to sit and draw his features on her heart's table," to "set aside relics for her idolatrous fancy to sanctify."

At the close of a long formal dinner M. de Bonneval came into his wife's room, looking worn and fatigued, and complaining of headache. The air was

sultry, the heat intense, the sky charged with heavy clouds. A storm was at hand, and the heavens looked:

"Dark as if the day of doom

Hung o'er nature's shrinking head."

"I cannot endure the thoughts of this ball. I am not in a humour for it," he exclaimed, throwing his sword and his hat on one of the gilded chairs of the bou

doir.

"Oh, then, pray let us give it

up," Judithe cried, with trembling eagerness. "Do let us spend this last evening alone. I can write an excuse. Grant me this favour, I implore you, my dear master."

M. de Bonneval nodded assent, and threw himself full-length on the couch near the open window. Judithe hastened to countermand the carriage, to desire her doors to be

closed, and to inform her mother that she would not accompany her that evening to the Luxembourg. Then, quickly taking off her ball-dress, she put on a white muslin dressing-gown, and seated herself on a low chair by her husband's side. It was the first time that she had seen him in pain. He was suffering from a violent headache. Gently raising his head she supported it with cushions; bathed his brows in "Eau de Hongrie," that aromatic essence of which Madame de Sévigné makes honourable mention; now and then uttering in a low voice some of those soothing words which women know how to address to the lords of creation, to those beings so strong in the midst of danger, but so easily overcome by illness. She grieved to see him suffer, but at the same time felt grateful to be

1

1 Je m'énivre d' Eau de Hongrie.-Madame de Sévigné's Letters.

allowed to lavish upon him those tender attentions which love alone can devise and bestow.

"If I could only doze for a short time," he said, "this headache would subside."

"Shall I read to you, my cousin?" she timidly asked. Who knows but it might provoke sleep, and give you relief?"

"Do you ever sing?" he inquired, taking her hand in his.

"Sometimes, a little," she answered, with a smile, and a slight blush.

"Oh, then, pray do so now. Your voice is so sweet in speaking that I am sure it must be charming when you sing."

He kissed the little hand he held in his, and closed his eyes; those eyes that had become the light of her existence. Her singing was, indeed, sweet and true; both