When the door closed behind him she could see nothing, for the blur of
tears in her eyes. Madame La Marquise received no other callers that
day.

In the days following she compared him with the courtiers, the
diplomats, the very clever men whom she met, and told herself he was
only a boy--a cadet of twenty-two. Why should she remember his words,
or forget for one instant that infamy with which his name was
connected?

"He goes on his knees to me only because he has grown weary of the
slave-women of the plantations," she told herself in deepest disgust.
Sometimes she would look curiously at the hands once covered by his
kisses. And once she threw a withered bunch of forget-me-nots from her
window, at night, and crept down at daybreak next morning and found
it, and took it back to her room.

It looked as though the boy was holding his own despite the
diplomats.

When she saw him again it was at an auction of articles donated for a
charity under the patronage of the Empress, and open to the public.
Cotton stuffs justled my lady's satins, and the half-world stared at
short range into the faces whose owners claimed coronets.

Many leading artists had donated sketches of their more pretentious
work. It was to that department the Marquise made her way, and
entering the gallery by a side door, found that the crowd had
separated her from the Countess Biron and the rest of their party.

Knowing that sooner or later they would find her there, she halted,
examining some choice bits of color near the door. A daintily dressed
woman, who looked strangely familiar, was standing near with
apparently the same intent. But she stood so still; and the poise of
her head betrayed that she was listening to something. The something
was a group of men back of them, where the black and white sketches
were on exhibition. The corridor was not wide, and their conversation
was in English and not difficult to understand if one gave attention.
The Marquise noted that Dumaresque was among them, and they stood
before his donation of sketches, of which the principal one was a
little study of the octoroon dancer, Kora.

Then in a flash she understood who the person was who listened. She
was the original of the picture, drawn there no doubt by a sort of
vanity to hear the artistic praise, or personal comment. But a swift
glance showed her it had been a mistake; the dark brows were frowning,
the full lip was bitten nervously, and the small unglove