since her wedding madame had abandoned, destroyed, all knowledge of
her friend. And the friend? She had disappeared as much as is possible
for one in her position and with her duties.

"What there is in blue eyes, light hair, and a fragile form to impress
one, I cannot tell; but for us men it seems to me it is blue-eyed,
light-haired, and fragile-formed women that are the hardest to
forget."

"The less easy to forget," corrected madam. He paid no attention
to the remark.

"They are the women that attach themselves in one's memory. If
necessary to keep from being forgotten, they come back into one's
dreams. And as life rolls on, one wonders about them,--'Is she happy?
Is she miserable? Goes life well or ill with her?'"

Madame played her cards slowly, one would say, for her, prosaically.

"And there is always a pang when, as one is so wondering, the response
comes,--that is, the certainty in one's heart responds,--'She is
miserable, and life goes ill with her.' Then, if ever, men envy the
power of God."

Madame threw over the game she was in, and began a new one.

"Such women should not be unhappy; they are too fragile, too
sensitive, too trusting. I could never understand the infliction
of misery upon them. I could send death to them, but not--not
misfortune."