the rest and concealed himself in her
dressing-room; as she was undressing, thinking herself alone, he
burst from his hiding-place, a bottle of champagne in either hand
and laughing like a mad-man. The new lover was less diverting.
However, she asked him his name.

"Jean Servien."

"Well, Monsieur Jean Servien, I am sorry, very sorry, to have
made you unhappy, as you say you are."

At the bottom of her heart she was more flattered than grieved
at the mischief she had done, so she repeated several times over
how very sorry she was.

She added:

"I cannot bear to hurt people. Every time a young man is unhappy
because of me, I am so distressed; but, honour bright, what do
you want me to do for you? Take yourself off, and be sensible.
It's no use your coming back to see me. Besides, it would be
ridiculous. I have a life of my own to live, quite private, and
it is out of the question for me to receive strange visitors."

He assured her between his sobs:

"Oh! how I wish you were poor and forsaken. I would come to you
then and we should be happy."

She was a good deal surprised he did not take her by the waist
or think of dragging her into the garden under the clump of trees
where there was a bench. She was a trifle disappointed and in a
way embarrassed not to have to defend her virtue. Finding the
conclusion of the interview did not match the beginning and the
young man was getting tedious, she slammed the gate in his face
and slipped back into the garden, where he saw her vanish in
the darkness.

She bore on her hand, beside a sapphire on her ring finger, a
drop of blood. In her chamber, as she emptied a jug of water over
her hands to wash away the stain, she could not help reflecting
how every drop of blood in this young man's veins would be shed
for her whenever she should give the word. And the thought made
her smile. At that moment, if he had been there, in that room,
at her side, it may be she would not have sent him away.

XV

Jean hurried down the lane and started off across country in
such a state of high exaltation as robbed him of all senses of
realities and banished all consciousness whether of joy or pain.
He had no remembrance of what he had been before the moment when
he kissed the actress's hand; he seemed a stranger to himself.
On his lips lingered a taste that stirred voluptuous fancies,
and grew stronger as he pressed them one against the other.

Next morning his intoxication was