Moths by Ouida — page 329: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Oe he ae nw + ee = —_. MOTHS. | 828 awe her eyes, and her lips were pale; otherwise she looked as usual, Jeanne de Sonnaz, greeting her with effusion, kissed her and _ thanked her for the children’s happy da Vere sat opposite her husband tour the dinner, which was always a banquet. Her eyes were tired, but there was a steady light in them—something heroic and invincible, that made the grave beauty of her face like that of a young warrior’s. Noone saw it. They only thought that she was tired, and so more silent than usual. The evening wore on its way; to her it seemed endless; there were many people staying in the house; it was such an evening as the first that she passed at Fclicite, when she had watched society with wondering gaze, as a bright comedy. Jeanne de Sonnaz, with a dressof red and gold, and some of her grand rubies on, sparkled like a jewel, till her ugly face seemed radiant and handsome. She sang songs of Theo and of Judic; she played impromptu a scene of Celine Chaumont’s; she was brilliant and Various as her manner was, and she sent ashower of mirth on the air that was to others as contagious aslaughing gas. ‘‘ What f pity she tires herself so much by the sea or on it,” she said of Vere to Sergius Zouroff. ‘‘It makes her so silent and so morne in the evening.” Ye muttered something like a suppressed oath, and went to his wife. : ‘‘'You look like a statue; you leave others to do all your duties for you; you sweep through the rooms like a ghost. Why can- not you rouse yourself, and laugh and dance?” Vere made him no answer. Laugh and dance in public, and in stealth betray him. To de that would have made him content, herself popular. The night wore itself away in time—she never well knew how; it closed somewhat earlier than usual, for the morrow was the first day of shooting, and Madame Jeanne had bidden them rise with the lark. Vere, instead of going to her room, went out into the gardens. The night was cool, fragrant, soundless, except for the murmur of the sea. ‘‘To laugh and wear a false or a foolish face—that is all he asks of me!” she thought, bitterly. If her husband could have seen her heart as it ached that night; if he could have known that only out of loyalty to him she had cast the myosotis from her hand into the sea, would he not only have told her she was an imbecile, and was too fond of tragedy, and he was no Othello to be jealous of an humble handkerchief? Would he not have said, ‘* Look around, and do like others?’ | It was between one and two.o’clock ; the stars were all at their brightest, except where clouds hung over the sea to the north and obscured them ; the chateau was quiet behind her,—an irreg- ular yet picturesque pile, that grew somber and fantastic in the shadows, while in its casements a few lights only gleamed here and there through the ivy. Vera stood and looked at the waves of the Channel without seeing them. The world seemed empty and silent. Never agam (ele) Gomicboo S)