“My poor dear!” said Marguerite at last. This incident served once again to illustrate the difference between the two sisters. Marguerite’s soul was of that admirable stuff out of which God makes his martyrs. She was aware of it and with all her might yearned to suffer. Life unfortunately offered her little to complain of. Her lot overflowed with blessings, so that she was reduced to seeking occasions for her power of endurance, in the trifling vexations of daily life. She did her best to find thorns in the smoothest path and caught eagerly at anything that had the smallest resemblance to a bramble. It must be admitted that she was an adept in the art of managing to get herself slighted; but Julius seemed continually endeavouring to give her less and less scope for exercising her virtues. Is it to be wondered at, then, that her attitude towards him was always discontented and complaining? How splendid her vocation would have been with a husband like Anthime! She was vexed to see her sister make so little of her opportunities. Veronica, indeed, eluded every grievance; sarcasms and jeers alike slipped off her smiling unruffled smoothness like water off a duck’s back. She had no doubt long ago become reconciled to the solitude of her life; Anthime, moreover, didn’t really treat her badly--she didn’t grudge him speaking his mind. She explained that the reason he spoke so loud was that he found it so difficult to move. His temper would be less violent if his legs were more active; and as Julius asked where he could have gone to, “To the laboratory,” she answered, and when Marguerite added that perhaps it would be as well to go and see whether he hadn’t been taken ill after such a fit of anger, she assured her it was better to let him get over it by himself and not pay too much attention to his outburst. “Let us finish dinner quietly,” she concluded. V No! Uncle Anthime had not stayed in his laboratory. He had passed rapidly through the room in which the six rats were bringing their long-drawn sufferings to a close. Why did he not linger on the terrace which lay bathed in the glimmer of the western sky? Perhaps the celestial radiance of the evening might have calmed his rebel soul--inclined his.... But no, he stopped his ears to so wise a counsel. He went on, took the difficult winding stairs and reached the court-yard, which he crossed. To us, who know what efforts each painful step cost him, this crippled haste seems tragic. When shall we see him show such savage energy in a good cause? Sometimes a groan escaped his lips; his features were distorted. Where would his impious rage lead him?