night, my venerable cousin of 1569
shall send me an invitation to come to see her."

"I would rather render you any other service than this," replied the
artist, walking up and down the room in long strides. "I know very well
that in all circumstances bachelors should triumph over husbands, but
that does not prevent my conscience from smiting me. You know that I
saved Bergenheim's life?"

"Rest assured that he runs no very great danger at present. Nothing will
result from this step save the little enjoyment I shall take in annoying
the cruel creature who defied me today. Is it agreed?"

"Since you insist upon it. But then, when our visit is ended, shall we
go to work at our drama or upon 'The Chaste Suzannah' opera in three
acts? For, really, you neglected art terribly for the sake of your love
affairs."

"The Chaste Suzannah or the whole Sacred History we shall put into
vaudeville, if you exact it. Until to-morrow, then."

"Until to-morrow."

CHAPTER VIII. A LOVER'S RUSE

It was three o'clock in the afternoon; the drawing-room of the Chateau
de Bergenheim presented its usual aspect and occupants. The fire on the
hearth, lighted during the morning, was slowly dying, and a beautiful
autumn sun threw its rays upon the floor through the half-opened
windows. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, stretched on the couch before the
fireplace with Constance at her feet, was reading, according to her
habit, the newspapers which had just arrived. Madame de Bergenheim
seemed very busily occupied with a piece of tapestry in her lap; but
the slow manner in which her needle moved, and the singular mistakes
she made, showed that her mind was far away from the flowers she was
working. She had just finished a beautiful dark lily, which contrasted
strangely with its neighbors, when a servant entered.

"Madame," said he, "there is a person here inquiring for Monsieur le
Baron de Bergenheim."

"Is Monsieur de Bergenheim not at home?" asked Mademoiselle de
Corandeuil.

"Monsieur has gone to ride with Mademoiselle Aline."

"Who is this person?"

"It is a gentleman; but I did not ask his name."

"Let him enter."

Clemence arose at the servant's first words and threw her work upon a
chair, making a movement as if to leave the room; but after a moment's
reflection, she resumed her seat and her work, apparently indifferent as
to who might enter.

"Monsieur de Marillac," announced the lackey, as he opened the door a
second time.