him, and filled the air with her cries. She ran forward, she lavished
her best care on her queen. All the time she was busy in bringing her to
her senses she was asking Camille for explanations, to which she did not
pay the least attention; she interrupted him at every word to exclaim:
"This has been designed, and you are at the bottom of the plot. I have
suspected you--you owe Antoinette a grudge. Your wounded vanity never
has recovered from her refusal, and you are determined to be revenged.
Perhaps you flatter yourself that she will end by loving you. She does
not love you, and she never will love you. Who are you, to dare compare
yourself with Count Larinski? Be silent! Do I believe in Samuel Brohl? I
do not know Samuel Brohl. I venture my head that there is no such person
as Samuel Brohl."

"Not much of a venture, mademoiselle," replied M. Moriaz, who had
arrived in the meantime.

Antoinette remained during an hour in a state of mute languor; then a
violent fever took possession of her. When the physician who had been
sent for arrived, M. Langis accompanied him into the chamber of the sick
girl. She was delirious: seated upright, she kept continually passing
her hand over her brow; she sought to efface the taint of a kiss she
had received one moonlight night, and the impression in her hair of the
flapping of a bat's wings that had caught in her hood. These two things
were confounded in her memory. From time to time she said: "Where is my
portrait? Give me my portrait."

It was about ten o'clock when M. Langis called on Samuel Brohl, who was
not astonished to see him appear; he had hoped he would come. Samuel
had regained self-possession. He was calm and dignified. However, the
tempest through which he had gone had left on his features some vestige
of its passage. His lips quivered, and his beautiful chestnut locks
curled like serpents about his temples, and gave his head a Medusa-like
appearance.

He said to Camille: "Where and when? Our seconds will undertake the
arrangement of the rest."

"You mistake, monsieur, the motive of my visit," replied M. Langis. "I
am grieved to destroy your illusions, but I did not come to arrange a
meeting with you."

"Do you refuse to give me satisfaction?"

"What satisfaction do I owe you?"

"You insulted me."

"When?"

"And you said: 'The day, the place, the weapons. I leave all to your
choice.'"

M. Langis could not refrain from smiling. "Ah! you at last acknowledge