filled with tears, as she sadly shook her head, and
said:

"I mean exactly what I say. It is only too true. He is ready to gratify
my every wish, you may say; what does that prove? Nothing. I am too
well convinced that he does not love me. I know what love is. Once I was
beloved by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings of
the last year make me know how miserable I must have made him by my cold
return. Alas! we must suffer ourselves before we can feel for others.
No, I am nothing to Prosper; he would not care if--"

"But then, madame, why--"

"Ah, yes," interrupted Nina, "why? you will be very wise if you can
answer me. For a year have I vainly sought an answer to this question,
so sad to me. I, a woman, cannot answer it; and I defy you to do so. You
cannot discover the thoughts of a man so thoroughly master of himself
that never is a single thought passing in his mind to be detected upon
his countenance. I have watched him as only a woman can watch the man
upon whom her fate depends, but it has always been in vain. He is kind
and indulgent; but he does not betray himself, never will he commit
himself. Ignorant people call him weak, yielding: I tell you that
fair-haired man is a rod of iron painted like a reed!"

Carried away by the violence of her feelings, Mme. Nina betrayed her
inmost thoughts. She was without distrust, never suspecting that the
stranger listening to her was other than a friend of Prosper.

As for Fanferlot, he congratulated himself upon his success. No one but
a woman could have drawn him so excellent a portrait; in a moment of
excitement she had given him the most valuable information; he now
knew the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, which in an
investigation like that he was pursuing is the principal point.

"You know that M. Bertomy gambles," he ventured to say, "and gambling is
apt to lead a man--"

Mme. Gypsy shrugged her shoulders, and interrupted him:

"Yes, he plays," she said, "but he is not a gambler. I have seen him
lose and gain large sums without betraying the slightest agitation. He
plays as he drinks, as he sups, as he falls in love--without passion,
without enthusiasm, without pleasure. Sometimes he frightens me; he
seems to drag about a body without a soul. Ah, I am not happy! Never
have I been able to overcome his indifference, and indifference so
great, so reckless, that I often think it must be despair; nothing will
convince me that he has no