d so terrifyingly, might have pursued her and pestered her for
their money, but she had the gifts that would arouse defenders for her
in any quarter of the globe.

Had she not one ally? certainly no friend! and yet, if Clemenceau would
only help her a little, she might cope with the arch-intriguer. If,
indeed, Felix did not save her, she would be lost. It was a dreadful
game, but glorious to win it, and she would be another and worthy woman
if she came out unwounded. In her distress, she would have had recourse
to the Jew and have utilized Rebecca though her rival, too! Besides,
there was Antonino, so passionate as to rush blindly, dagger in hand, on
even a Von Sendlingen.

"Come, come, cheer up," she said to herself, "there is a chance or two
yet. If only I could get over this crisis, I will reform and sincerely
resolve not to do a single act for which to reproach myself!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

A BITTER PARTING.

With a somewhat less burdened mind, Cesarine was still pondering when
she saw Antonino, who had opened the door but perceived her, about to
withdraw without notifying her of his presence. It was the act of a
devotee who feared to pray in the chapel, when the priestess stood by
the saint's image.

"Do not go," she exclaimed with vehemence. "Come here after closing the
door tightly, for I want you to enter into a little plot with me."

She had regained her smiling visage and her sweet voice.

"Would you do it?"

"It depends upon who the object is," he said tremulously.

"It is against my husband," she replied with her smile more bright and
her tone more merry.

"I forewarn you, madame, that I should turn informer," he answered in
the same light key, but forced.

"That would be very bad for him for I am conspiring for his benefit."

"In that case, madame, I am entirely your man."

"Are you able to keep a secret?" she asked with gravity.

"I think so."

They had withdrawn into the window recess, and could see the gardens, as
they conversed. The light fell on her through the Valenciennes curtain
and at her back was a sombre tapestry. Her late trial gave her an
exhausted air which seemed the additional gloss with which melancholy
makes a woman more fascinating in the sentimental eyes of youth.

"I dare say you can keep your own," she pointedly said.

"Not so well, I fear, as another's."

"You must give me your word of honor that if my plot does not please
you, nobody shall be told?"

"I