One day Calyste looked about him discontentedly; he had stayed at
home! Sabine made herself caressing and humble, gay and sparkling.

"You are vexed with me, Calyste; am I not a good wife? What is there
here that displeases you?" she asked.

"These rooms are so cold and bare," he replied; "you don't understand
arranging things."

"Tell me what is wanting."

"Flowers."

"Ah!" she thought to herself, "Madame de Rochefide likes flowers."

Two days later, the rooms of the hotel du Guenic had assumed another
aspect. No one in Paris could flatter himself to have more exquisite
flowers than those that now adorned them.

Some time later Calyste, one evening after dinner, complained of the
cold. He twisted about in his chair, declaring there was a draught,
and seemed to be looking for something. Sabine could not at first
imagine what this new fancy signified, she, whose house possessed a
calorifere which heated the staircases, antechambers, and passages. At
last, after three days' meditation, she came to the conclusion that
her rival probably sat surrounded by a screen to obtain the
half-lights favorable to faded faces; so Sabine had a screen, but hers
was of glass and of Israelitish splendor.

"From what quarter will the next storm come?" she said to herself.