ithout one look or one thought being turned
away from me. Does that suit you? Don't bind yourself imprudently; it
concerns your whole life, my little man."

"With a woman like you I can do it blind," cried Fabien, intoxicated by
the glance she gave him as much as by the liqueurs des Iles.

"You shall never repent that word, my dear; you shall be peer of France.
As for that poor old fellow," she continued, looking at Rochefide, who
was sound asleep, "after to-day I have d-o-n-e with him."

Fabien caught Madame Schontz around the waist and kissed her with an
impulse of fury and joy, in which the double intoxication of wine and
love was secondary to ambition.

"Remember, my dear child," she said, "the respect you ought to show
to your wife; don't play the lover; leave me free to retire from my
mud-hole in a proper manner. Poor Couture, who thought himself sure of
wealth and a receiver-generalship!"

"I have a horror of that man," said Fabien; "I wish I might never see
him again."

"I will not receive him any more," replied Madame Schontz, with a
prudish little air. "Now that we have come to an understanding, my
Fabien, you must go; it is one o'clock."

This little scene gave birth in the household of Arthur and Aurelie (so
completely happy until now) to a phase of domestic warfare produced in
the bosom of all homes by some secret and alien interest in one of the
partners. The next day when Arthur awoke he found Madame Schontz as
frigid as that class of woman knows how to make herself.

"What happened last night?" he said, as he breakfasted, looking at
Aurelie.

"What often happens in Paris," she replied, "one goes to bed in damp
weather and the next morning the pavements are dry and frozen so hard
that they are dusty. Do you want a brush?"

"What's the matter with you, dearest?"

"Go and find your great scarecrow of a wife!"

"My wife!" exclaimed the poor marquis.

"Don't I know why you brought Maxime here? You mean to make up with
Madame de Rochefide, who wants you perhaps for some indiscreet brat. And
I, whom you call so clever, I advised you to give back her fortune! Oh!
I see your scheme. At the end of five years Monsieur is tired of me. I'm
getting fat, Beatrix is all bones--it will be a change for you! You are
not the first I've known to like skeletons. Your Beatrix knows how to
dress herself, that's true; and you are man who likes figure-heads.
Besides, you want to send Monsieur du Guenic to the righ