her tool, without
even giving him the tips of her fingers, or granting him the slightest
favor, induced him to be so imprudent, that the old man grew jealous,
watched them, discovered the intrigue, and found mad letters in which
his son was angry, begged, threatened and implored.

One evening, when she knew that her lover had come in, and was hiding in
a dark cupboard in order to watch them, Wanda happened to be alone in
the drawing-room, which was full of light, of beautiful flowers, with
this young fellow, five-and-twenty. He threw himself at her feet and
declared his love, and besought her to run away with him, and when she
tried to bring him to reason and repulsed him, and told him in a loud
and very distinct voice, how she loved Monsieur de Loubancourt, he
seized her wrists with brutal violence, and maddened with passion and
stammering words of love and lust, he pushed her towards one of the
couches.

"Let me go," she said, "let me go immediately,... You are a brute to
take advantage of a woman like that.... Please let me go, or I shall
call the servants to my assistance."

The next moment, the old man, terrible in his rage, rushed out of his
hiding place with clenched fists and a slobbering mouth, threw himself
on the startled son, and pointing to the door with a superb gesture, he
said:

"You are a dirty scoundrel, sir. Get out of my house immediately, and
never let me see you again!"

* * * * *

The comedy was over. Grateful for such fidelity and real affection,
Monsieur de Loubancourt married Wanda Pulska, whose name appeared on the
civil register--which was a detail of no importance to a man who was in
love--as Frida Krubstein; she came from Saxony, and had been a servant
at an inn. Then he disinherited his son, as far as he could.[17]

[Footnote 17: According to French law, nobody can altogether disinherit
a child, and no son or daughter can be "cut off" with a "proverbial
shilling."]

And now that she is a respectable and respected widow, Madame de
Loubancourt is received everywhere by society in those places of winter
resort where people's by-gone history is so rarely gone into, and where
women bear a name, who are pretty, and who can waltz--like the Germans
can, are always well received.

THE READ ONE AND THE OTHER

"Well, really," Chasseval said, standing with his back to the fire,
"could any of those respectable shop-keepers and wine growers have