“‘Allow me to tell you, sir, that the men of your generation, accustomed to live with courtezans, and to seek venal and ready-made loves, are ignorant of what is due to women because they are women. None make more allowance than I do for the levities of youth. But what I blame is, that in utter wantonness, and for the gratification of an idle curiosity, you lift the curtain shrouding a secret, and pour out misery and desolation upon a poor woman, more deserving, perhaps, of censure than of utter condemnation. Be not more severe than a husband,--you, a young man, liable to profit by such errors; and remember that a true gentleman will respect women even in their weaknesses. Weigh my words, M. de Movillez; you will not be offended at my frankness.’” A few hours after this scene, the Countess do Marsanne, alone in her boudoir, and busy with her embroidering frame, receives a visit from her husband. Just returned from one hunting-party, and about to start upon another, the incorrigible sportsman is seized with remorse at the solitude to which his wife is condemned, and, touched by her resignation to a lonely and cheerless existence, he generously resolves to sacrifice his own pleasures to her happiness. He proposes that they should go to Italy, and pass the winter at Florence or Naples, where he trusts to wean himself from the chase and acquire a taste for domestic enjoyments. The Countess refuses to take advantage of the generous impulse, professes her sincere friendship for her husband, but avows that her love for him has fled, driven from her heart by suffering and neglect. “At this moment Madame de Marsanne’s maid came to tell her that her bedroom was ready for her reception. Then she added: “‘I have looked every where for the purse of Madame la Comtesse, but it is no where to be found.’ “At these words, Marsanne’s countenance assumed a singular paleness, and it was all he could do to master his emotion and say to his wife: “‘You have lost your purse?’ “‘Yes,’ replied the Countess, unobservant of her husband’s agitation; ‘or, rather, I have mislaid it in some corner.’ “‘It was doubtless of value?’ “‘Oh! by no means. A little green silk purse, my own work, and nearly empty.’ “The Count remained motionless, like a man struck by a thunderbolt. “‘You have no commissions for Plessy?’ he at last articulated, breathing short and quick, and not knowing what he asked. “‘I thought you just said you were going to Orleans,’ replied the Countess. “‘I shall visit Plessy on my return.’ “‘Then kiss my little godson Henriot. Much pleasure to you; and return as soon as possible.’ “Marsanne raised the Countess’s hand to his lips, and left the boudoir; but he staggered like a drunken man, and was obliged to support himself by the bannister in order to reach his room.