med dead; the baron
crept stealthily out of his room, and went and scratched at her door,
and as she did not reply, he tried to open it, and found that it was not
locked.

She was in a reverie, resting her arms against the window ledge, and he
threw himself at her knees, which he kissed madly, through the
nightdress. She said nothing, but buried her delicate fingers
caressingly in his hair, and suddenly, as if she had formed some great
resolution, she whispered with her daring look: "I shall come back, wait
for me." And stretching out her hand, she pointed with her finger to an
indistinct white spot at the end of the room; it was her bed.

Then, with trembling hands and scarcely knowing what he was doing, he
quickly undressed, got into the cool sheets, and stretching himself out
comfortably, he almost forgot his love in the pleasure he found, tired
out as he was, in the contact of the linen. She did not return, however,
no doubt finding amusement in making him languish. He closed his eyes
with a feeling of exquisite comfort, and reflected peaceably while
waiting for what he so ardently longed for. But by degrees his limbs
grew languid and his thoughts became indistinct and fleeting, until his
fatigue gained the upper hand and he fell asleep.

He slept that unconquerable, heavy sleep of the worn-out hunter, and he
slept until daylight; and then, as the window had remained half open,
the crowing of a cock suddenly woke him, and the baron opened his eyes,
and feeling a woman's body against his, finding himself, much to his
surprise, in a strange bed, and remembering nothing for a moment, he
stammered:

"What? Where am I? What is the matter?"

Then she, who had not been asleep at all, looking at this unkempt man,
with red eyes and swollen lips, replied in the haughty tone of voice in
which she occasionally spoke to her husband:

"It is nothing; it is only a cock crowing. Go and sleep again, Monsieur,
it has nothing to do with you."

JULOT'S OPINION

The Duchess Huguette de Lionzac was very much infatuated with herself,
but then she had a perfect right to be, and who, in her place, would not
have shown a spice of conceit? There was no success which she had wished
for, that she had not attained. She had received a medal for sculpture
at the _Salon_, and at the _Exhibition of Excessives_ she had shown a
water-color which looked eccentric, even there.

She had published a collection of poems which was crowned