ain, bold hand,
and the perfume, that intoxicating, conjuring perfume, the very breath
from her divine mouth. So it was true, his jealous love had not led him
astray, nor her evident embarrassment in his presence for some time
past, nor Constance's mysterious, youthful airs, nor the superb bouquets
strewn about the studio, as in the mysterious shadow of a sin. So that
indomitable pride had surrendered at last! But in that case why not to
him, Jenkins? He who had loved her so long, always in fact, who was ten
years younger than the other, and who certainly was no shiverer? All
those thoughts rushed through his brain like arrows shot from a tireless
bow. And he stood there, riddled with wounds, torn with emotion, his
eyes blinded with blood, staring at the little cold, soft envelope which
he dared not open for fear of removing one last doubt, when a rustling
of the hangings, which made him hastily toss the letter back and close
the smoothly-running drawer of the lacquer table, warned him that
somebody had entered the room.

"Hallo! is it you, Jansoulet? How came you here?"

"His Excellency told me to come and wait for him in his bedroom,"
replied the Nabob, very proud to be thus admitted to the sanctuary of
the private apartments, especially at an hour when the minister did not
receive. The fact was that the duke was beginning to show a genuine,
sympathetic feeling for that savage. For several reasons: in the first
place he liked audacious, pushing fellows, lucky adventurers. Was he not
one himself? And then the Nabob amused him; his accent, his unvarnished
manners, his flattery, a trifle unblushing and impudent, gave him a
respite from the everlasting conventionality of his surroundings, from
that scourge of administrative and court ceremonial which he held in
horror,--the conventional phrase,--in so great horror that he never
finished the period he had begun. The Nabob, for his part, finished his
in unforeseen ways that were sometimes full of surprises; he was a
first-rate gambler too, losing games of ecarte at five thousand francs
the turn, at the club on Rue Royale, without winking. And then he was so
convenient when one wanted to get rid of a picture, always ready to buy,
no matter at what price. These motives of condescending amiability had
been reinforced latterly by a feeling of pity and indignation because of
the persistent ferocity with which the poor fellow was being persecuted,
because of the cowardly, mercil