r this you tortured me?" I said, as I admired the workmanship
of this beautiful ornament, which contains a little scent-box at one
end.

Then it flashed on me that the present was a fresh artifice.
Nevertheless I threw myself at once on his neck, not without reproaching
him gently for having caused me so much pain for the sake of a trifle.
He was greatly pleased with his ingenuity; his eyes and his whole
bearing plainly showed the restrained triumph of the successful plotter;
for there is a radiance of the soul which is reflected in every feature
and turn of the body. While still examining the beauties of this work of
art, I asked him at a moment when we happened to be looking each other
in the face:

"Who is the artist?"

"A friend of mine."

"Ah! I see it has been mounted by Verdier," and I read the name of the
shop printed on the handle.

Gaston is nothing but a child yet. He blushed, and I made much of him
as a reward for the shame he felt in deceiving me. I pretended to notice
nothing, and he may well have thought the incident was over.

May 25th.

The next morning I was in my riding-habit by six o'clock, and by seven
landed at Verdier's, where several whips of the same pattern were shown
to me. One of the men serving recognized mine when I pointed it out to
him.

"We sold that yesterday to a young gentleman," he said. And from the
description I gave him of my traitor Gaston, not a doubt was left of his
identity. I will spare you the palpitations which rent my heart during
that journey to Paris and the little scene there, which marked the
turning-point of my life.

By half-seven I was home again, and Gaston found me, fresh and blooming,
in my morning dress, sauntering about with a make-believe nonchalance. I
felt confident that old Philippe, who had been taken into my confidence,
would not have betrayed my absence.

"Gaston," I said, as we walked by the side of the lake, "you cannot
blind me to the difference between a work of art inspired by friendship
and something which has been cast in a mould."

He turned white, and fixed his eyes on me rather than on the damaging
piece of evidence I thrust before them.

"My dear," I went on, "this is not a whip; it is a screen behind which
you are hiding something from me."

Thereupon I gave myself the gratification of watching his hopeless
entanglement in the coverts and labyrinths of deceit and the desperate
efforts he made to find some wall he might scale