r way. But seeing all
the men with their eyes fixed on Yvette in bed, he was seized with a
jealous irritation, and advanced toward them. "Gentlemen," he said,
"there are too many of us in this room; be kind enough to leave us
alone,--Monsieur Saval and me--with the Marquise."

He spoke in a tone which was dry and full of authority.

Madame Obardi had grasped her lover, and with her head uplifted
toward him she cried to him:

"Save her, oh, save her!"

But Servigny turning around saw a letter on the table. He seized it
with a rapid movement, and read the address. He understood and
thought: "Perhaps it would be better if the Marquise should not know
of this," and tearing open the envelope, he devoured at a glance the
two lines it contained:

"I die so that I may not become a kept woman."
"Yvette."

"Adieu, my dear mother, pardon."

"The devil!" he thought, "this calls for reflection." And he hid the
letter in his pocket.

Then he approached the bed, and immediately the thought came to him
that the young girl had regained consciousness but that she dared
not show it, from shame, from humiliation, and from fear of
questioning. The Marquise had fallen on her knees now, and was
weeping, her head on the foot of the bed. Suddenly she exclaimed:

"A doctor, we must have a doctor!"

But Servigny, who had just said something in a low tone to Saval,
replied to her: "No, it is all over. Come, go out a minute, just a
minute, and I promise you that she will kiss you when you come
back." And the Baron, taking Madame Obardi by the arm, led her from
the room.

Then Servigny, sitting-by the bed, took Yvette's hand and said:
"Mam'zelle, listen to me."

She did not answer. She felt so well, so soft and warm in bed, that
she would have liked never to move, never to speak, and to live like
that forever. An infinite comfort had encompassed her, a comfort the
like of which she had never experienced.

The mild night air coming in by velvety breaths touched her temples
in an exquisite almost imperceptible way. It was a caress like a
kiss of the wind, like the soft and refreshing breath of a fan made
of all the leaves of the trees and of all the shadows of the night,
of the mist of rivers, and of all the flowers too, for the roses
tossed up from below into her room and upon her bed, and the roses
climbing at her balcony, mingled their heavy perfume with the
healthful savor of the evening breeze.

She drank in th