Do those words not sum up the incitement to live well which the example of all heroes gives us? They were great in that they did not bargain over their deeds, that in their careers, whether short or long, were manifest the marks of souls free from all fear and weakness. So Paule found consolation and comfort in that very thing which was the source of her heart’s disorder. She swore to herself, as she smelt the flower, that henceforward she would bear the burden of her days bravely, without bitterness, without revolt. Her despised youth would not be useless if she spent herself in willing sacrifice. And when she rejoined her mother she greeted her with an embrace of protection for the old age confided to her care. It was as though she sealed with a kiss the promise of her new-born courage. CHAPTER VI ISABELLE In the middle of the front tier of boxes at the Club Theatre at Aix-les-Bains Madame de Marthenay and Madame Landeau displayed their beauty, one shyly, the other with the utmost composure, to the eyes and opera-glasses of the audience. They were a good foil for each other. Isabelle wore a soft silk dress, of buttercup yellow, whose V-shaped opening revealed the curve of her breast; and round her slender neck, to set off its whiteness, was a black velvet ribbon in which flashed a diamond of extraordinary coloring. The gentle Alice was dressed in black lace, without a jewel. She had chosen this sombre color the better to efface herself, but it suited her fair complexion admirably. Behind the women were seated Count de Marthenay, M. Landeau, and Captain Jean Berlier. That evening Gluck’s “Iphigenia in Tauris” was being sung. As the first swelling notes of the orchestra called for silence and attention throughout the house, the ex-lieutenant of dragoons silently opened the door and glided out of the box. He made at once for the gaming room. His wife turned round a moment later and noticed his flight. Alone in her sorrow, she was mourning as she saw Marcel’s friend once more; mourning for what might have been and was not. Isabelle was radiant. She was experiencing the joyous sensations of the cat who has made sure of her prey and gloatingly prolongs her anticipations, imagining she felt the breath of the young man behind her on her neck, just below her dark hair. M. Landeau was divided between desire for this beautiful, cruel creature and anxiety to run off to the reading-room to see the latest reports from the Stock Exchange, the scene of his unending battles.