hypocritical and too
subtle in the art of obtaining her signature when he needed money for
enterprises that were more for ostentation than real benefit. The man
with whom she dined and talked every day had no significance for her.

With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned
a sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so
precisely that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented
to her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and
dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane glories.
His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three
generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had
loved an imperishable memory. His virile grace, his quiet elegance, and
his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary
term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin.
The homage of this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with
pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused her.
She let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic
frivolity, to finish worthily his happy life by the subjugation of this
young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who evidently
admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned stratagems.
But she escaped him very easily.

She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her
ardently, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of
his mind. She said to herself: "I gave myself to him because he loved
me." It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful
instinct had impelled her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of
her being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened her
nature at last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity of his
sentiment. She had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved.
She had given herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded
easily. He was mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the
irreparable gives, and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly
something to conceal. Everything that had been whispered before
her about other women resounded in her burning ears. But, proud and
delicate, she took care to hide the value of the gift she was making. He
never suspected her moral uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and
was replaced by perfect t