I beg your pardon." Madame Durmaitre, who doubtless owes the unalterable serenity of her soul to the consciousness of her supreme beauty, had been content with smiling with disdainful nonchalance.

She dropped into the arm-chair, which I had given up to her.
"What gloomy weather!" she said to me; "really, this autumnal sky weighs upon the soul.

I was looking out of the window; all the trees look like cypress-trees, and the whole country looks like a graveyard.

It would really seem that----" "No, ah! no.

I beg of you, Nathalie," interrupted Madame de Palme, "say no more.