Those were peaceful, placid days. When the snow swirled without in blustering eddies, the curtains were drawn close, and logs were piled upon the fire till they hissed and sparkled, and Gabrielle, as she listened to the rhythm of the verse, broken pleasantly from time to time by the distant mirth of the children as they romped now and then with the attentive chevalier, was fain to confess herself content. How smoothly the water runs as it approaches the edge of the precipice, and with what angry foam crests it hurries away after the fall. If the chatelaine had been asked at this juncture whether she pined for aught, she would have said _No_. Clovis, the shadowy one, was nearer to her than he had ever been, condescending sometimes to discuss affairs with her and even play with the darling prodigies. We can't fashion our spouses to our liking. Those who are undemonstrative must not be expected to coruscate. Clovis was not wilfully unkind. The chevalier had forgotten his folly. What a mercy that was! The abbe, with all his lightly scintillating oddities, was a pearl of price. All things considered, existence was not unpleasant. The dream was interrupted in this wise. On a certain stormy evening the abbe had laid down his book. The chevalier reclined in his chair, gulping in stentorous slumber, while Gabrielle sat listening to the saddest sound in the world--the soughing of the winter wind. At her feet lay Pharamond with flushed face, excited by the story he had been reading--that of Francesca da Rimini. "That pig will die in a fit," he remarked presently, with a glance of scorn at his brother, who lay with his back to them in gurgling unconsciousness; "and the sooner the better, for then we shall be alone." "_That day they read no more!_" Ah me, what a tale it is, old as the hills but ever new! A silence. Gabrielle too was reflecting on the story of Francesca. "An all-devouring consuming love. Tell me, Gabrielle, is it a curse or a blessing?" "That depends," replied the other, slowly, "whether it be pure or not. The condition of real love implies abnegation of self in favour of the one who is loved." "Too cold a view of it for me," returned the abbe. "I belong to the south, where it burns and scorches. I believe that illicit love is best. Poor Gabrielle! Ignorant sleeping princess, yet awaiting the awakening kiss! How strange, that one so beautiful should never have felt the divine breath! Clovis could not love. He is too selfish. With that brute snoring there, the god-like sentiment rises no higher than the lust of the uncultured savage." Tears welled into the eyes of Gabrielle. "I take it," she murmured, "that the reason love is so often a curse lies in its inequality, since it is given to no couple to love with equal fervour."