"But not as you ought to love him," replied Germaine, as excited as Odette, "for then you could not be unhappy. Then you would appreciate your wonderfully happy lot in life, or, if you were in trouble you would appeal to him, not come to me." Odette came closer to her sister, seized her hands and said slowly: "You are right. I do not love him." Germaine's eyes flashed with anger. What! _his_ wife! belong to _him_! so tenderly loved, and no love for him in return! Oh, it was infamous! She groaned in her despair, but suddenly reproached herself that her sympathy was all for Paul. She conquered her anger, and with infinite tenderness said: "Then, dear one, I understand your sufferings; but, hope! dearest Odette. Every one has hours of anguish and despair; but hope, and you will regain your lost love. Depend on me and on God!" As Germaine repeated her last word, the young wife cried: "You can believe and pray. I can not; I have tried, and found nothing to answer me." She covered her face with her hands, while sobs convulsed her frame from head to foot. "Weep, dear Odette. I weep with you from the depths of my heart. I do not understand, though. Why did you marry if you did not love him? and, if you loved him, why have you changed so suddenly?" Odette commenced a true confession, but again her womanly delicacy rebelled. She could not tell her pure and gentle sister the shameful secret of her marriage, and no words could she bring over her lips. At last she said: "Do not leave me alone, Germaine; come back with me to the house to-day. I must return now. Come with me, I beseech you. I will leave a note for my father, so that he will come up to dinner." "I will do whatever you wish," Germaine replied. Claude happened to have invited a few gentlemen to dinner, so the conversation was very gay and animated. Odette wished nothing more than to be left to her own thoughts; but Grenoble insisted upon discussing art with her, and she replied with some vivacity. As she became interested in the subject, her wit and sparkling sallies drew the attention of the whole party. Grenoble and the gentlemen applauded. She was inexpressibly beautiful--her nervous excitement flushing her delicate complexion and lending brilliancy to her glorious eyes. Claude looked at her in wondering admiration, appreciating her rare wit and beauty. Usually he went out after dinner, or the gentlemen adjourned to the studio; but no one left the drawing-room this evening. "You are eloquent, Madame," said Grenoble. "I never heard an art critic express himself better. Women play with paradoxes as skilfully as Japanese jugglers play with knives." "Do not abuse the paradox, M. Grenoble. It is the truth of to-morrow."