"Prophets and kings have sought the truth, mademoiselle, and have not
found it," he said lightly.

Catrina made no answer to this. Her ponies required considerable
attention. Also, there are some minds like large banking houses--not
dealing in small change. That which passes in or out of such minds has
its own standard of importance. Such people are not of much use in these
days, when we like to touch things lightly, adorning a tale but pointing
no moral.

"I would ask you to believe that your society was one incentive to make
me accept the countess's kind hospitality," the Frenchman observed after
a pause.

"And?"

De Chauxville looked at her. He had not met many women of solid
intellect.

"And?" repeated Catrina.

"I have others, of course."

Catrina gave a little nod and waited.

"I wish to be near Alexis," added De Chauxville.

Catrina was staring straight in front of her. Her face had acquired a
habit of hardening at the mention of Paul's name. It was stone-like now,
and set. Perhaps she might have forgiven him if he had loved her once,
if only for a little while. She might have forgiven him, if only for the
remembrance of that little while. But Paul had always been a man of set
purpose, and such men are cruel. Even for her sake, even for the sake of
his own vanity, he had never pretended to love Catrina. He had never
mistaken gratified vanity for dawning love, as millions of men do. Or
perhaps he was without vanity. Some few men are so constructed.

"Do you love him so?" asked Catrina, with a grim smile distorting her
strong face.

"As much as you, mademoiselle," replied De Chauxville.

Catrina started. She was not sure that she hated Paul. Toward Etta,
there was no mistake in her feeling, and this was so strong that, like
an electric current, there was enough of it to pass through the wife and
reach the husband.

Passion, like character, does not grow in crowded places. In great
cities men are all more or less alike. It is only in solitary abodes
that strong natures grow up in their own way. Catrina had grown to
womanhood in one of the solitary places of the earth. She had no facile
axiom, no powerful precedent, to guide her every step through life. The
woman who was in daily contact with her was immeasurably beneath her in
mental power, in force of character, in those possibilities of love or
hatred which go to make a strong life for good or for evil. By the side
of her daughter the Countess