of a
Lieutenant-Colonel, which showed how deeply he was in the toils.
Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it sat
uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his sense of guilt.
The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could not distort it into a
virtue, try as he would. He lacked that cunning artifice which a man of
the world possesses, that of winning over to the right a misdeed.

And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life, Carewe had
betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how frail his house
of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he had until to-day deemed
special favors were favors common to all these military dandies. They,
too, could kiss Madame's hand, and he could do no more. And yet she held
him. Did she love him? He could not tell. All he knew was that it was
impossible not to love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination
of the woman beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and
oppressions.... To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by force to the
altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.

If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her fancy
a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within. He himself was but
dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not matter. Since that morning
the veil had fallen from his eyes, but he had said nothing; he was
waiting for her to speak. Would she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge
that had come to him had transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was
the woman who had promised to be his wife.

Only two candles burned on the mantel-piece. The library was a room
apart from the festivities. A soft, rose-colored darkness pervaded the
room. Presently a darker shadow tiptoed over the threshold. He turned,
and the shadow approached. Madame's gray eyes, full of lambent fires,
looked into his own.

"I was seeking you," she said. The jewels in her hair threw a kind of
halo above her head.

"Have I the happiness to be necessary to you?" he asked.

"You have not been enjoying yourself."

"No, Madame; my conscience is, unhappily, too green." He turned to the
window again for fear he would lose control of himself.

"I have a confession to make to you," she said humbly. How broad his
shoulders were, was her thought.

"It can not concern me," he replied.

"How?"

"There is only one confession which I care to hear. You made it once,
though you are not willing to repeat i