ed, which she meant
to lay up as a relic. Lucien understood all the self-sacrifice and
delicacy of love, fain of its reward. He looked into Coralie's eyes. In
a moment she had flung off her clothing and slipped like a serpent to
Lucien's side.

At five o'clock in the afternoon Lucien was still sleeping, cradled in
this voluptuous paradise. He had caught glimpses of Coralie's chamber,
an exquisite creation of luxury, a world of rose-color and white. He
had admired Florine's apartments, but this surpassed them in its dainty
refinement.

Coralie had already risen; for if she was to play her part as the
Andalusian, she must be at the theatre by seven o'clock. Yet she had
returned to gaze at the unconscious poet, lulled to sleep in bliss; she
could not drink too deeply of this love that rose to rapture, drawing
close the bond between the heart and the senses, to steep both in
ecstasy. For in that apotheosis of human passion, which of those that
were twain on earth that they might know bliss to the full creates
one soul to rise to love in heaven, lay Coralie's justification. Who,
moreover, would not have found excuse in Lucien's more than human
beauty? To the actress kneeling by the bedside, happy in love within
her, it seemed that she had received love's consecration. Berenice broke
in upon Coralie's rapture.

"Here comes Camusot!" cried the maid. "And he knows that you are here."

Lucien sprang up at once. Innate generosity suggested that he was doing
Coralie an injury. Berenice drew aside a curtain, and he fled into a
dainty dressing-room, whither Coralie and the maid brought his clothes
with magical speed.

Camusot appeared, and only then did Coralie's eyes alight on Lucien's
boots, warming in the fender. Berenice had privately varnished them, and
put them before the fire to dry; and both mistress and maid alike forgot
that tell-tale witness. Berenice left the room with a scared glance at
Coralie. Coralie flung herself into the depths of a settee, and bade
Camusot seat himself in the _gondole_, a round-backed chair that stood
opposite. But Coralie's adorer, honest soul, dared not look his mistress
in the face; he could not take his eyes off the pair of boots.

"Ought I to make a scene and leave Coralie?" he pondered. "Is it worth
while to make a fuss about a trifle? There is a pair of boots wherever
you go. These would be more in place in a shop window or taking a walk
on the boulevard on somebody's feet; here, how