Madame recommenced advising him; he shook his head, laughing, rose and
bid her good-morning, with courtesy, but still with the regardless air
of one whom too much unsolicited attention was surfeiting and
spoiling.
When he was gone, Madame dropped into the chair he had just left; she
rested her chin in her hand; all that was animated and amiable
vanished from her face: she looked stony and stern, almost mortified
and morose. She sighed; a single, but a deep sigh. A loud bell rang
for morning-school. She got up; as she passed a dressing-table with a
glass upon it, she looked at her reflected image. One single white
hair streaked her nut-brown tresses; she plucked it out with a
shudder. In the full summer daylight, her face, though it still had
the colour, could plainly be seen to have lost the texture of youth;
and then, where were youth's contours? Ah, Madame! wise as you were,
even _you_ knew weakness. Never had I pitied Madame before, but
my heart softened towards her, when she turned darkly from the glass.
A calamity had come upon her. That hag Disappointment was greeting her
with a grisly "All-hail," and her soul rejected the intimacy.
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