of his was near turning out very badly, a thing
you may not be aware of, and even his reputation----"

A contraction of the brows made him pause.

Then, falling back on generalities, he expressed his pity for the "poor
women whose husbands frittered away their means."

"But in this case, monsieur, the means belong to him. As for me, I have
nothing!"

No matter, one never knows. A woman of experience might be useful. He
made offers of devotion, exalted his own merits; and he looked into her
face through his shining spectacles.

She was seized with a vague torpor; but suddenly said:

"Let us look into the matter, I beg of you."

He exhibited the bundle of papers.

"This is Frederick's letter of attorney. With such a document in the
hands of a process-server, who would make out an order, nothing could be
easier; in twenty-four hours----" (She remained impassive; he changed
his manoeuvre.)

"As for me, however, I don't understand what impels him to demand this
sum, for, in fact, he doesn't want it."

"How is that? Monsieur Moreau has shown himself so kind."

"Oh! granted!"

And Deslauriers began by eulogising him, then in a mild fashion
disparaged him, giving it out that he was a forgetful individual, and
over-fond of money.

"I thought he was your friend, monsieur?"

"That does not prevent me from seeing his defects. Thus, he showed very
little recognition of--how shall I put it?--the sympathy----"

Madame Arnoux was turning over the leaves of a large manuscript book.

She interrupted him in order to get him to explain a certain word.

He bent over her shoulder, and his face came so close to hers that he
grazed her cheek. She blushed. This heightened colour inflamed
Deslauriers, he hungrily kissed her head.

"What are you doing, Monsieur?" And, standing up against the wall, she
compelled him to remain perfectly quiet under the glance of her large
blue eyes glowing with anger.

"Listen to me! I love you!"

She broke into a laugh, a shrill, discouraging laugh. Deslauriers felt
himself suffocating with anger. He restrained his feelings, and, with
the look of a vanquished person imploring mercy:

"Ha! you are wrong! As for me, I would not go like him."

"Of whom, pray, are you talking?"

"Of Frederick."

"Ah! Monsieur Moreau troubles me little. I told you that!"

"Oh! forgive me! forgive me!" Then, drawling his words, in a sarcastic
tone:

"I even imagined that you were sufficiently interested