f equal good-humor. "If your friend wants to ask an
explanation of anybody it is of you, for you took some kirsch of 1765
for water."

"I really believe that I was the drunker of the two," interrupted
Octave, with a vivacity which concealed a certain embarrassment; "we
must have terribly scandalized Monsieur de Camier, who has but a poor
opinion of Parisian heads and stomachs."

After looking for a moment at the sleeping artist, Christian approached
the table where Gerfaut was seated, and threw a glance over the latter's
writing.

"You are still at work, I see?" said he, as his eyes rested upon the
paper.

"Just now I am following the modest trade of copyist. These are some
verses which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil asked me for--"

"Will you do me a favor? I am going to her room now; give me these
verses to hand to her. Since the misfortune that befell Constance, she
has been terribly angry with me, and I shall not be sorry to have some
reason for going to her room."

Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and
handed the sheet to Bergenheim. The latter looked at it attentively,
then carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.

"I thank you, Monsieur," said he, "I will leave you to your friendly
duties."

There was something so solemn in the calm accent of these words, and the
polite bow which accompanied them, that Gerfaut felt chilled, though not
alarmed, for he did not understand.

When he reached his room, Bergenheim opened the paper which Gerfaut
had just given him and compared it with the letter he had received from
Lambernier. The suspicions which a separate examination had aroused were
confirmed upon comparing the two letters; no doubt was possible; the
letter and the poetry were written by the same hand!

After a few moments' reflection, Christian went to his wife's room.

Clemence was seated in an armchair, near the fireplace, indulging in a
revery. Although her lover was not there, she was still under the charm
of this consuming as well as intellectual passion, which responded to
the yearnings of her heart, the delicacy of her tastes, and the activity
of her imagination. At this moment, she was happy to live; there was not
a sad thought that these words, "He loves me!" could not efface.

The noise of the opening door aroused her from her meditation. Madame de
Bergenheim turned her head with a look of vexation, but instead of
the servant whom she was ready to repriman