She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery, all their perfidy. She saw now their cunning, their sly looks, her good faith played with, her confidence turned to account. She saw them looking into each other's faces, under the shade of her lamp at evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of certain pages. And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sunk into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries. When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room. Her husband called her: "Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!" Bertha appeared at her door and said with trembling lip: "Go alone to her; she has no need of me." He looked at her sheepishly, careless from anger, and repeated: "Quick, quick! She is dying!" Bertha answered: "You would prefer it to be I." Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again to the dying one. There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and evening. They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute and hopeless. After a time, he tried to appease her a little. But she would not forget. And so the life continued, hard for them both. For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Bertha almost became mad. Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned toward eight o'clock carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white roses, all white. She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He came in disturbed, troubled. "Let us go out together," she said to him. "Take these flowers, they are too heavy for me." He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, which started as soon as they were seated. It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Bertha, her eyes full of tears, said to George: "Take me to her grave." He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on before, holding the flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble and pointed to it without a word. She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of the grave. Then her heart was raised in suppliant, silent prayer. Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories. She arose and put out her hands to him. "If you wish, we will be friends," she said. THE WHITE WOLF This is the story the old Marquis d'Arville told us after a dinner in honor of Saint-Hubert, at the house of Baron des Ravels. They had run down a stag that day. The Marquis was the only one of the guests who had not taken part in the chase. He never hunted.