uties
became odious to her. It seemed to her that all the people about her
were enemies bent upon separating her from happiness, for happiness was
Octave; and this happiness, made up of words, letters, glances from him,
was lost!

The evening of the fourth day, she found this torture beyond her
strength.

"I shall become insane," she thought; "to-morrow I will speak to him."

Gerfaut was saying to himself, at nearly the same moment: "To-morrow I
will have a talk with her." Thus, by a strange sympathy, their hearts
seemed to understand each other in spite of their separation. But what
was an irresistible attraction in Clemence was only a determination
resulting from almost a mathematical calculation on her lover's part.
By the aid of this gift of second sight which intelligent men who are
in love sometimes possess, he had followed, degree by degree, the
variations of her heart, without her saying one word; and in spite of
the veil of scorn and indifference with which she still had the courage
to shield herself, he had not lost a single one of the tortures she had
endured for the last four days. Now he thought that he had discovered
enough to allow him to risk a step that, until then, he would have
deemed dangerous; and with the egotism common to all men, even the best
of lovers, he trusted in the weakness born of sorrow.

The next day a hunting party was arranged with some of the neighbors.
Early in the morning, Bergenheim and Marillac started for the
rendezvous, which was at the foot of the large oak-tree where the
artist's tete-a-tete had been so cruelly interrupted. Gerfaut refused to
join them, under the pretence of finishing an article for the 'Revue de
Paris', and remained at home with the three ladies. As soon as dinner
was ended, he went to his room in order to give a semblance of truth to
his excuse.

He had been busying himself for some time trimming a quill pen at the
window, which looked out upon the park, when he saw in the garden,
directly beneath him, Constance's forefeet and nose; soon the dog jumped
upon the sill in order to warm herself in the sun.

"The old lady has entered her sanctuary," thought Gerfaut, who knew that
it was as impossible to see Constance without her mistress as St.-Roch
without his dog.

A moment later he saw Justine and Mademoiselle de Corandeuil's maid
starting off, arm in arm, as if they were going for a promenade.
Finally, he had hardly written half a page, when he noti