attracted by the smile of that fresh face.  The mother was for him something more.  Her sufferings, her youthful heroism had touched him.  She became somebody in his eyes.  He discovered many merits in her.  He perceived she was remarkably well-informed for a woman, and prodigiously so for a French woman.  She understood half a word—­knew a great deal—­and guessed at the remainder.  She had, in short, that blending of grace and solidity which gives to the conversation of a woman of cultivated mind an incomparable charm.  Habituated from infancy to her mental superiority as to her pretty face, she carried the one as unconsciously as the other.  She devoted herself to the care of his household as if she had no idea beyond it.  There were domestic details which she would not confide to servants.  She followed them into her salons, into her boudoirs, a blue feather-brush in hand, lightly dusting the ‘etageres’, the ‘jardinieres’, the ‘consoles’.  She arranged one piece of furniture and removed another, put flowers in a vase-gliding about and singing like a bird in a cage.

Her husband sometimes amused himself in following her with his eye in these household occupations.  She reminded him of the princesses one sees in the ballet of the opera, reduced by some change of fortune to a temporary servitude, who dance while putting the house in order.

“How you love order, Marie!” said he to her one day.

“Order” she said, gravely, “is the moral beauty of things.”

She emphasized the word things—­and, fearing she might be considered pretentious, she blushed.

She was a lovable creature, and it can be understood that she might have many attractions, even for her husband.  Yet though he had not for one instant the idea of sacrificing to her the passion that ruled his life, it is certain, however, that his wife pleased him as a charming friend, which she was, and probably as a charming forbidden fruit, which she also was.  Two or three years passed without making any sensible change in the relations of the different persons in this history.  This was the most brilliant phase and probably the happiest in the life of M. de Camors.

His marriage had doubled his fortune, and his clever speculations augmented it every day.  He had increased the retinue of his house in proportion to his new resources.  In the region of elegant high life he decidedly held the sceptre.  His horses, his equipages, his artistic tastes, even his toilet, set the law.

His liaison with Madame de Campvallon, without being proclaimed, was suspected, and completed his prestige.  At the same time his capacity as a political man began to be acknowledged.  He had spoken in some recent debate, and his maiden speech was a triumph.  His prosperity was great.  It was nevertheless true that M. de Camors did not enjoy it without trouble.  Two black spots darkened the sky above his head, and might contain destroying thunder.  His life was eternally suspended on a thread.