te looked out of the landing window, murmuring
horror-struck:

"It's crossing the garden! It's going into the summer-house. Stop it,
stop it!"

"But what is it?" repeated Maurice--"in God's name, what is it?"

"My Flavius Josephus," exclaimed Monsieur Sariette. "Stop it!"

And he fell down unconscious.

"You see he is quite mad," said Maurice to Madame des Aubels, as he
lifted up the unfortunate librarian.

Gilberte, a little pale, said she also thought she had seen something in
the direction indicated by the unhappy man, something flying.

Maurice had seen nothing, but he had felt what seemed like a gust of
wind.

He left Monsieur Sariette in the arms of Hippolyte and the housekeeper,
who had both hastened to the spot on hearing the noise.

The old gentleman had a wound in his head.

"All the better," said the housekeeper; "this wound may save him from
having a fit."

Madame des Aubels gave her handkerchief to stop the blood, and
recommended an arnica compress.

CHAPTER IX

WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN THAT, AS AN ANCIENT GREEK POET SAID,
"NOTHING IS SWEETER THAN APHRODITE THE GOLDEN"

Although he had enjoyed Madame des Aubels' favours for six whole months,
Maurice still loved her. True they had had to separate during the
summer. For lack of funds of his own he had had to go to Switzerland
with his mother, and then to stop with the whole family at the Chateau
d'Esparvieu. She had spent the summer with her mother at Niort, and the
autumn with her husband at a little Normandy seaside place, so that they
had hardly seen each other four or five times. But since the winter,
kindly to lovers, had brought them back to town again, Maurice had been
receiving her twice a week in his little flat in the Rue de Rome, and
received no one else. No other woman had inspired him with feelings of
such constancy and fidelity. What augmented his pleasure was that he
believed himself loved, and indeed he was not unpleasing.

He thought that she did not deceive him, not that he had any reason to
think so, but it appeared right and fitting that she should be content
with him alone. What annoyed him was that she always kept him waiting,
and was unpunctual in coming to their meeting-place; she was invariably
late,--at times very late.

Now on Saturday, January 30th, since four o'clock in the afternoon,
Maurice had been awaiting Madame des Aubels in the little pink room,
where a bright fire was burning. He was gaily