remained there, sunk in an attitude of grief, which I should have
liked to see perpetuated by a great painter.

"'You are,' I went on, 'the wife of the noblest and most highly
respected of men; of a man who is acknowledged to be great, but who is
far greater in his conduct to you than he is in the eyes of the world.
You and he are two lofty natures.--Where do you suppose yourself to be
living?' I asked her.

"'In my own house,' she replied, opening her eyes with a wide stare
of astonishment.

"'In Count Octave's,' I replied. 'You have been tricked. M.
Lenormand, the usher of the Court, is not the real owner; he is only a
screen for your husband. The delightful seclusion you enjoy is the
Count's work, the money you earn is paid by him, and his protection
extends to the most trivial details of your existence. Your husband
has saved you in the eyes of the world; he has assigned plausible
reasons for your disappearance; he professes to hope that you were not
lost in the wreck of the _Cecile_, the ship in which you sailed for
Havana to secure the fortune to be left to you by an old aunt, who
might have forgotten you; you embarked, escorted by two ladies of her
family and an old man-servant. The Count says that he has sent agents
to various spots, and received letters which give him great hopes. He
takes as many precautions to hide you from all eyes as you take
yourself. In short, he obeys you . . .'

"'That is enough,' she said. 'I want to know but one thing more. From
whom have you obtained all these details?'