“How so; pray tell me, for pity’s sake?” “In this way, madame--you have touched the axe,” said Montriveau, lowering his voice. “What an enchanting prophecy!” returned she, smiling with assumed grace. “And when is my head to fall?” “I have no wish to see that pretty head of yours cut off. I only fear some great misfortune for you. If your head were clipped close, would you feel no regrets for the dainty golden hair that you turn to such good account?” “There are those for whom a woman would love to make such a sacrifice; even if, as often happens, it is for the sake of a man who cannot make allowances for an outbreak of temper.” “Quite so. Well, and if some wag were to spoil your beauty on a sudden by some chemical process, and you, who are but eighteen for us, were to be a hundred years old?” “Why, the smallpox is our Battle of Waterloo, monsieur,” she interrupted. “After it is over we find out those who love us sincerely.” “Would you not regret the lovely face that?” “Oh! indeed I should, but less for my own sake than for the sake of someone else whose delight it might have been. And, after all, if I were loved, always loved, and truly loved, what would my beauty matter to me?--What do you say, Clara?” “It is a dangerous speculation,” replied Mme de Serizy. “Is it permissible to ask His Majesty the King of Sorcerers when I made the mistake of touching the axe, since I have not been to London as yet?----” “_Not so_,” he answered in English, with a burst of ironical laughter. “And when will the punishment begin?” At this Montriveau coolly took out his watch, and ascertained the hour with a truly appalling air of conviction. “A dreadful misfortune will befall you before this day is out.” “I am not a child to be easily frightened, or rather, I am a child ignorant of danger,” said the Duchess. “I shall dance now without fear on the edge of the precipice.” “I am delighted to know that you have so much strength of character,” he answered, as he watched her go to take her place in a square dance. But the Duchess, in spite of her apparent contempt for Armand’s dark prophecies, was really frightened. Her late lover’s presence weighed upon her morally and physically with a sense of oppression that scarcely ceased when he left the ballroom. And yet when she had drawn freer breath, and enjoyed the relief for a moment, she found herself regretting the sensation of dread, so greedy of extreme sensations is the feminine nature. The regret was not love, but it was certainly akin to other feelings which prepare the way for love. And then--as if the impression which Montriveau had made upon her were suddenly revived--she recollected his air of conviction as he took out his watch, and in a sudden spasm of dread she went out.