tilian demeanor. And now,
suddenly, like a child, on the first chance meeting with that woman, he
had allowed himself to be drawn into a confession that he had been
rigidly withholding!

Ah! it was because he loved her, and had always loved her. There was
only one woman in the whole world for him,--this one. He did not lie.
Marianne's smile haunted him, wherever he was. In her glance was a
poison that he had drunk, which set his blood on fire. He was hers.
Except for the image of Lissac, he would most certainly have returned
long since to Paris to seek Mademoiselle Kayser.

But Lissac was there. He recalled how much Guy had loved her. He had
more than once made the third in their company. He had often accompanied
Lissac to Marianne's door. How then had she dared to say just now that
she had never been his mistress?

But how was he to believe her?

And why, after all, should she have lied? What interest had she?--

In proportion as Rosas considered the matter, he grew more angry with
himself, and in the very midst of the crowd, he was seized with a
violent attack of frenzy, such as at times suddenly determined him to
seek absolute solitude. He was eager to escape.

In order to avoid Madame Marsy, who was perhaps seeking him, he slipped
through the groups of people and reached the door without being seen,
leaving without formal salutation, as the English do.

He was in the hall, putting on his overcoat, while a servant turned up
its otter-fur collar, when he heard Guy say:

"You are going, my dear duke? Shall we bear each other company?"

The idea was not distasteful to Rosas. Involuntarily, perhaps, he
thought that a conversation with Lissac was, in some way, a _chat_ with
Marianne. These two beings were coupled in his recollections and
preoccupations; besides, he really liked Guy. The Parisian was the
complement of the Castilian. They had so many reminiscences in common:
fetes, suppers, sorrows, Parisian sadnesses, girls who sobbed to the
measure of a waltz. Then they had not seen each other for so long.

Rosas experienced a certain degree of pleasure in finding himself once
more on the boulevard with Guy. It made him feel young again. Every
whiff of smoke that ascended from his cigar in the fresh air, seemed to
breathe so many exhalations of youth. They had formerly ground out so
many paradoxes as they strolled thus arm in arm, taking their recreation
through Paris.

In a very little time, and after the ex