and self-indulgent to the core--heartless, too, or he could not survey his wife's sufferings with such perfect equanimity. True, he knew little about her, and troubled less. If he had not again dismissed her from his mind he could not but perceive her suffering. He was infatuated by that dreadful woman, and further beguiled astray by his insidious brother. No help was to be expected from him, or, indeed, from any one. She had boldly defied the abbé. Would she be given strength to fight? Alas, alas! Did she not know too well that she was not made for fighting? Where, then, to look for assistance? Rising, she slowly paced the room, and thought Heaven was cruel. Why not have let her die? Sure 'tis a venial sin to put off what one cannot bear? We can feel for ourselves with the instinct with which we are endowed, that the burthen is too great. Heaven is busy with other things--too indifferent to know or care what we poor pigmies feel. She paused in her walk before a mirror and shook her head at the pale and drawn reflexion. "Oh! fatal gift of beauty," she murmured, "which men pretend to worship, swearing that 'tis a glimpse of paradise. It is a devil's gift; for its province is to stir the foulest lees of the base human soul and set them festering."

What was she to do--what to expect? Perhaps he had already invented and set going some new plan to torture her. Would she have done better, being but a helpless, tempest-tossed sport of destiny, to have surrendered, pleading her weakness and his strength? Had he not touched on the cherubs, she might have given way for very weariness; but they, as she had declared, were her buckler. They wist not of her, nor cared, being transferred to other hands, and yet they stood 'twixt her and the precipice. Then she fell a thinking of Victor and pretty Camille. When they grew up they would seek their mother. Would they not? If not, why live? Better--better far--to die. Yes: Heaven had been cruel--very, very cruel!

Suspecting nothing of the abbé's move, Mademoiselle Brunelle resolved on that very self-same morning to operate on her own account. She made her way boldly to the boudoir, and without knocking, entered. Gabrielle started, and dried her eyes. The woman dared to invade her sanctuary. For what purpose? In her highly-strung condition of despairing nervousness, it seemed to Gabrielle that the governess looked as wicked and as menacing as the abbé.

In truth there was a sour curl about her lips that was not becoming. The marquise, as white as a sheet, in tears? Crying her eyes out in solitude--the whining idiot! That so weak and contemptible an obstacle should be allowed to 

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