life；　of　yesterday；　to…morrow；　and　to…day；　lay　in　that　young　heart。　Moina；　with　better　fortune；　had　survived　four　older　children。　As　a　matter　of　fact；　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　had　lost　her　eldest　daughter；　a　charming　girl；　in　a　most　unfortunate　manner；　said　gossip；　nobody　knew　exactly　what　became　of　her；　and　then　she　lost　a　little　boy　of　five　by　a　dreadful　accident。
  The　child　of　her　affections　had；　however；　been　spared　to　her；　and　doubtless　the　Marquise　saw　the　will　of　Heaven　in　that　fact；　for　those　who　had　died；　she　kept　but　very　shadowy　recollections　in　some　far…off　corner　of　her　heart；　her　memories　of　her　dead　children　were　like　the　headstones　on　a　battlefield；　you　can　scarcely　see　them　for　the　flowers　that　have　sprung　up　about　them　since。　Of　course；　if　the　world　had　chosen；　it　might　have　said　some　hard　truths　about　the　Marquise；　might　have　taken　her　to　task　for　shallowness　and　an　overweening　preference　for　one　child　at　the　expense　of　the　rest；　but　the　world　of　Paris　is　swept　along　by　the　full　flood　of　new　events；　new　ideas；　and　new　fashions；　and　it　was　inevitable　the　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　should　be　in　some　sort　allowed　to　drop　out　of　sight。　So　nobody　thought　of　blaming　her　for　coldness　or　neglect　which　concerned　no　one；　whereas　her　quick；　apprehensive　tenderness　for　Moina　was　found　highly　interesting　by　not　a　few　who　respected　it　as　a　sort　of　superstition。　Besides；　the　Marquise　scarcely　went　into　society　at　all；　and　the　few　families　who　knew　her　thought　of　her　as　a　kindly；　gentle；　indulgent　woman；　wholly　devoted　to　her　family。　What　but　a　curiosity；　keen　indeed；　would　seek　to　pry　beneath　the　surface　with　which　the　world　is　quite　satisfied？　And　what　would　we　not　pardon　to　old　people；　if　only　they　will　efface　themselves　like　shadows；　and　consent　to　be　regarded　as　memories　and　nothing　more！
  Indeed；　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　became　a　kind　of　example　complacently　held　up　by　the　younger　generation　to　fathers　of　families；　and　frequently　cited　to　mothers…in…law。　She　had　made　over　her　property　to　Moina　in　her　own　lifetime；　the　young　Countess'　happiness　was　enough　for　her；　she　only　lived　in　her　daughter。　If　some　cautious　old　person　or　morose　uncle　here　and　there　condemned　the　course　with〃Perhaps　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　may　be　sorry　some　day　that　she　gave　up　her　fortune　to　her　daughter；　she　may　be　sure　of　Moina；　but　how　can　she　be　equally　sure　of　her　son…　in…law？〃these　prophets　were　cried　down　on　all　sides；　and　from　all　sides　a　chorus　of　praise　went　up　for　Moina。
  〃It　ought　to　be　said；　in　justice　to　Mme。　de　Saint…Hereen；　that　her　mother　cannot　feel　the　slightest　difference；〃　remarked　a　young　married　woman。　〃Mme。　d'Aiglemont　is　admirably　well　housed。　She　has　a　carriage　at　her　disposal；　and　can　go　everywhere　just　as　she　used　to　do〃
  〃Except　to　the　Italiens；〃　remarked　a　low　voice。　（This　was　an　elderly　parasite；　one　of　those　persons　who　show　their　independenceas　they　thinkby　riddling　their　friends　with　epigrams。）　〃Except　to　the　Italiens。　And　if　the　dowager　cares　for　anything　on　this　earth　but　her　daughterit　is　music。　Such　a　good　performer　she　was　in　her　time！　But　the　Countess'　box　is　always　full　of　young　butterflies；　and　the　Countess'　mother　would　be　in　the　way；　the　young　lady　is　talked　about　already　as　a　great　flirt。　So　the　poor　mother　never　goes　to　the　Italiens。〃
  〃Mme。　de　Saint…Hereen　has　delightful　'At　Homes'　for　her　mother；〃　said　a　rosebud。　〃All　Paris　goes　to　her　salon。
  〃And　no　one　pays　any　attention　to　the　Marquise；〃　returned　the　parasite。
  〃The　fact　is　that　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　is　never　alone；〃　remarked　a　coxcomb；　siding　with　the　young　women。
  〃In　the　morning；〃　the　old　observer　continued　in　a　discreet　voice；　〃in　the　morning　dear　Moina　is　asleep。　At　four　o'clock　dear　Moina　drives　in　the　Bois。　In　the　evening　dear　Moina　goes　to　a　ball　or　to　the　Bouffes。　Still；　it　is　certainly　true　that　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　has　the　privilege　of　seeing　her　dear　daughter　while　she　dresses；　and　again　at　dinner；　if　dear　Moina　happens　to　dine　with　her　mother。　Not　a　week　ago；　sir；〃　continued　the　elderly　person；　laying　his　hand　on　the　arm　of　the　shy　tutor；　a　new　arrival　in　the　house；　〃not　a　week　ago；　I　saw　the　poor　mother；　solitary　and　sad；　by　her　own　fireside。'What　is　the　matter？'　I　asked。　The　Marquise　looked　up　smiling；　but　I　am　quite　sure　that　she　had　been　crying。'I　was　thinking　that　it　is　a　strange　thing　that　I　should　be　left　alone　when　I　have　had　five　children；'　she　said；　'but　that　is　our　destiny！　And　besides；　I　am　happy　when　I　know　that　Moina　is　enjoying　herself。'She　could　say　that　to　me；　for　I　knew　her　husband　when　he　was　alive。　A　poor　stick　he　was；　and　uncommonly　lucky　to　have　such　a　wife；　it　was　certainly　owing　to　her　that　he　was　made　a　peer　of　France；　and　had　a　place　at　Court　under　Charles　X。〃
  Yet　such　mistaken　ideas　get　about　in　social　gossip；　and　such　mischief　is　done　by　it；　that　the　historian　of　manners　is　bound　to　exercise　his　discretion；　and　weigh　the　assertions　so　recklessly　made。　After　all；　who　is　to　say　that　either　mother　or　daughter　was　right　or　wrong？　There　is　but　One　who　can　read　and　judge　their　hearts！　And　how　often　does　He　wreak　His　vengeance　in　the　family　circle；　using　throughout　all　time　children　as　His　instruments　against　their　mothers；　and　fathers　against　their　sons；　raising　up　peoples　against　kings；　and　princes　against　peoples；　sowing　strife　and　division　everywhere？　And　in　the　world　of　ideas；　are　not　opinions　and　feelings　expelled　by　new　feelings　and　opinions；　much　as　withered　leaves　are　thrust　forth　by　the　young　leaf…　buds　in　the　spring？all　in　obedience　to　the　immutable　Scheme；　all　to　some　end　which　God　alone　knows。　Yet；　surely；　all　things　proceed　to　Him；　or　rather；　to　Him　all　things　return。
  Such　thoughts　of　religion；　the　natural　thoughts　of　age；　floated　up　now　and　again　on　the　current　of　Mme。　d'Aiglemont's　thoughts；　they　were　always　dimly　present　in　her　mind；　but　sometimes　they　shone　out　clearly；　sometimes　they　were　carried　under；　like　flowers　tossed　on　the　vexed　surface　of　a　stormy　sea。
  She　sat　on　a　garden…seat；　tired　with　walking；　exhausted　with　much　thinkingwith　the　long　thoughts　in　which　a　whole　lifetime　rises　up　before　the　mind；　and　is　spread　out　like　a　scroll　before　the　eyes　of　those　who　feel　that　Death　is　near。
  If　a　poet　had　chanced　to　pass　along　the　boulevard；　he　would　have　found　an　interesting　picture　in　the　face　of　this　woman；　grown　old　before　her　time。　As　she　sat　under　the　dotted　shadow　of　the　acacia；　the　shadow　the　acacia　casts　at　noon；　a　thousand　thoughts　were　written　for　all　the　world　to　see　on　her　features；　pale　and　cold　even　in　the　hot；　bright　sunlight。　There　was　something　sadder　than　the　sense　of　waning　life　in　that　expressive　face；　some　trouble　that　went　deeper　than　the　weariness　of　experience。　It　was　a　face　of　a　type　that　fixes　you　in　a　moment　among　a　host　of　characterless　faces　that　fail　to　draw　a　second　glance；　a　face　to　set　you　thinking。　Among　a　thousand　pictures　in　a　gallery；　you　are　strongly　impressed　by　the　sublime　anguish　on　the　face　of　some　Madonna　of　Murillo's；　by　some　/Beatrice　Cenci/　in　which　Guido's　art　portrays　the　most　touching　innocence　against　a　background　of　horror　and　crime；　by　the　awe　and　majesty　that　should　encircle　a　king；　caught　once　and　for　ever　by　Velasquez　in　the　sombre　face　of　a　Philip　II。；　and　so　is　it　with　some　living　human　faces；　they　are　tyrannous　pictures　which　speak　to　you；　submit　you　to　searching　scrutiny；　and　give　response　to　your　inmost　thoughts；　nay；　there　are　faces　that　set　forth　a　whole　drama；　and　Mme。　d'Aiglemont's　stony　face　was　one　of　these　awful　tragedies；　one　of　such　faces　as　Dante　Alighieri　saw　by　thousands　in　his　vision。
  For　the　little　season　that　a　woman's　beauty　is　in　flower　it　serves　her　admirably　well　in　the　dissimulation　to　which　her　natural　weakness　and　our　social　laws　condemn　her。　A　young　face　and　rich　color；　and　eyes　that　glow　with　light；　a　gracious　maze　of　such　subtle；　manifold　lines　and　curves；　flawless　and　perfectly　traced；　is　a　screen　that　hides　everything　that　stirs　the　woman　within。　A　flush　tells　nothing；　it　only　heightens　the　coloring　so　brilliant　already；　all　the　fires　that　burn　within　can　add　little　light　to　the　flame　of　life　in　eyes　which　only　seem　the　brighter　for　the　flash　of　a　passing　pain。　Nothing　is　so　discreet　as　a　young　face；　for　nothing　is　less　mobile；　it　has　the　serenity；　the　surface　smoothness；　and　the　freshness　of　a　lake。　There　is　not　character　in　women's　faces　before　the　age　of　thirty。　The　painter　discovers　nothing　there　but　pink　and　white；　and　the　smile　and　expression　that　repeat　the　same　thought　in　the　same　waya　thought　of　youth　and　love　that　goes　no　further　than　youth　and　love。　But　the　face　of　an　old　woman　has　expressed　all　that　lay　in　her　nature；　passion　has　carved　lines　on　her　features；　love　and　wifehood　and　motherhood；　and　extremes　of　joy　and　anguish；　having　wrung　them；　and　left　their　traces　in　a　thousand　wrinkles；　all　of　which　speak　a　language　of　their　own；　then　it　is　that　a　woman's　face　becomes　sublime　in　its　horror；　beautiful　in　its　melancholy；　grand　in　its　calm。　If　it　is　permissible　to　carry　the　strange　metaphor　still　further；　it　might　be　said　that　in　the　dried…up　lake　you　can　see　the　traces　of　all　the　torrents　that　once　poured　into　it　and　made　it　what　it　is。　An　old　face　is　nothing　to　the　frivolous　world；　the　frivolous　world　is　shocked　by　th