u to tell me where Monsieur de Funcal
lives."

"I do not know; but some one here can no doubt tell you."

The baron, having questioned the prefect, ascertained that the Comte de
Funcal lived at the Portuguese embassy. At this moment, while he still
felt the icy fingers of that strange man in his hair, he saw Madame
Jules in all her dazzling beauty, fresh, gracious, artless, resplendent
with the sanctity of womanhood which had won his love. This creature,
now infernal to him, excited no emotion in his soul but that of hatred;
and this hatred shone in a savage, terrible look from his eyes. He
watched for a moment when he could speak to her unheard, and then he
said:--

"Madame, your _bravi_ have missed me three times."

"What do you mean, monsieur?" she said, flushing. "I know that you
have had several unfortunate accidents lately, which I have greatly
regretted; but how could I have had anything to do with them?"

"You knew that _bravi_ were employed against me by that man of the rue
Soly?"

"Monsieur!"

"Madame, I now call you to account, not for my happiness only, but for
my blood--"

At this instant Jules Desmarets approached them.

"What are you saying to my wife, monsieur?"

"Make that inquiry at my own house, monsieur, if you are curious," said
Maulincour, moving away, and leaving Madame Jules in an almost fainting
condition.

There are few women who have not found themselves, once at least in
their lives, _a propos_ of some undeniable fact, confronted with
a direct, sharp, uncompromising question,--one of those questions
pitilessly asked by husbands, the mere apprehension of which gives
a chill, while the actual words enter the heart like the blade of a
dagger. It is from such crises that the maxim has come, "All women
lie." Falsehood, kindly falsehood, venial falsehood, sublime falsehood,
horrible falsehood,--but always the necessity to lie. This necessity
admitted, ought they not to know how to lie well? French women do it
admirably. Our manners and customs teach them deception! Besides,
women are so naively saucy, so pretty, graceful, and withal so true
in lying,--they recognize so fully the utility of doing so in order
to avoid in social life the violent shocks which happiness might not
resist,--that lying is seen to be as necessary to their lives as the
cotton-wool in which they put away their jewels. Falsehood becomes to
them the foundation of speech; truth is exceptional; they tell it, if
th