rgetic, determined, he looked at Therese.

On the stage, in Marguerite's prison, Mephistopheles sang, and the
orchestra imitated the gallop of horses. Therese murmured:

"I have a headache. It is too warm here."

Le Menil opened the door.

The clear phrase of Marguerite calling the angels ascended to heaven in
white sparks.

"Darling, I will tell you that poor Marguerite does not wish to be saved
according to the flesh, and for that reason she is saved in spirit and
in truth. I believe one thing, darling, I believe firmly we shall all be
saved. Oh, yes, I believe in the final purification of sinners."

Therese rose, tall and white, with the red flower at her breast. Miss
Bell, immovable, listened to the music. Le Menil, in the anteroom, took
Madame Martin's cloak, and, while he held it unfolded, she traversed the
box, the anteroom, and stopped before the mirror of the half-open door.
He placed on her bare shoulders the cape of red velvet embroidered with
gold and lined with ermine, and said, in a low tone, but distinctly:

"Therese, I love you. Remember what I asked you the day before
yesterday. I shall be every day, at three o'clock, at our home, in the
Rue Spontini."

At this moment, as she made a motion with her head to receive the cloak,
she saw Dechartre with his hand on the knob of the door. He had heard.
He looked at her with all the reproach and suffering that human eyes can
contain. Then he went into the dim corridor. She felt hammers of fire
beating in her chest and remained immovable on the threshold.

"You were waiting for me?" said Montessuy. "You are left alone to-day. I
will escort you and Miss Bell."

CHAPTER XXXIII. A WHITE NIGHT

In the carriage, and in her room, she saw again the look of her lover,
that cruel and dolorous look. She knew with what facility he fell into
despair, the promptness of his will not to will. She had seen him run
away thus on the shore of the Arno. Happy then in her sadness and in her
anguish, she could run after him and say, "Come." Now, again surrounded,
watched, she should have found something to say, and not have let him
go from her dumb and desolate. She had remained surprised, stunned. The
accident had been so absurd and so rapid! She had against Le Menil the
sentiment of simple anger which malicious things cause. She reproached
herself bitterly for having permitted her lover to go without a word,
without a glance, wherein she could have placed her soul.