for the hero, they,—they married for money. When we are old and passées, we get what would have made our youth divine. Men are the serious occupation, women are the playthings, of fate."
"Ah, yes, men are more fortunate." Mademoiselle Aurore eagerly availed herself of the fissure in which to insert her peculiar complaint. "There is something sure, something stable in a man's life. Look at Féfé. I do not say he has not had griefs, disappointments, misfortunes even, in his life, but they did not change it, only interrupted it a minute; with me, those things take away my life itself." Her voice quivered, and the emotion in her face made her look something as she did at sixteen. She took a long breath and resumed: "It is like this: either Féfé would not have sent Gabi for the mail, or Gabi would have brought it properly, or he would have informed the whole world about it, me first of all, coûte que coûte. He would not have managed the truth on account of my prejudices, he would have had no hopes attached to it; now with me—" She was going to open her heart a little lower down to Madame, and reveal those hopes so paltry as to be involved in Gabi's good
