rvant entered with candles and retired. Maurice, when
his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces.
Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture--a comical mixture--of
content and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the wax
in the candlesticks. He asked himself what other task she had to perform
that she should take so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge of
her recent humiliation been too much for her?

She was speaking to him. "Monsieur, will you walk with me in the park? I
am faint."

"Are you ill, countess?" asked Madame, coming up and placing her hand
under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read her eyes.

"Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive me."
When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice: "Monsieur,
I have brought you here to tell you something. I fear that your friend
is lost, for you can do nothing."

"Not even if I break my word?" he asked.

"It would do no good."

"Why?"

"It is too late," lowly. "I have been Madame's understudy too long not
to read. Forgive me. I was to keep you apart; I have done so. The
evil can not now be repaired. Your hope is that Madame has not fully
considered his pride."

"Has she any regard for him?"

"Sentiment?--love?" She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. "Madame has
brain, not heart. Could a woman with a heart plan as she plans?"

"Well, let us not talk of plots and plans; let us talk of--"

"Monsieur, do not be unkind. I have asked your forgiveness. Let us not
talk; let us be silent and listen to the night;" and she leaned over the
terrace balustrade.

Maurice floated. As he leaned beside her a strand of perfumed hair blew
across his nostrils. ... The princess was at best a dream. It was not
likely that he ever would speak to her again. The princess was a poem,
unlettered and unrhymed. But here, close to him, was a bit of beautiful
material prose. The hair again blew out toward him and he moved his
lips. She heard the vague sound and lifted her head.

Far away came the call of the sentry; a horse whinneyed in the stables.
There was in the air the odor of an approaching storm.

CHAPTER XII. WHOM THE GODS DESTROY AND A FEW OTHERS

Some time passed before Fitzgerald became aware of Maurice's departure.
When he saw that he and Madame were alone, he said nothing, but pulled
all the quicker at his clay. He wondered at the desire which suddenly
manife