The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. ” She said, embarrassed. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition.
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