nuine triumph for Clemence to
reduce a man of his recognized talent, who was usually anything but
timid, to this state of embarrassment? What witty response, what
passionate speech could equal the flattery of this poet with bent head
and this expression of deep sadness upon his face?

Madame de Bergenheim continued her raillery, but in a softer tone.

"This time, instead of staying in a cabin, the god of poetry
has descended to a tavern. Have you not established your general
headquarters at La Fauconnerie?"

"How did you know that?"

"By the singular visiting-card that you drew in La Mode. Do I not know
your coat-of-arms? An expressive one, as my aunt would say."

At these words, which probably referred to some letters, doubtless read
without very much anger, since they were thus recalled, Gerfaut took
courage.

"Yes," said he, "I am staying at La Fauconnerie; but I can not stay
there any longer, for I think your servants make the tavern their
pleasure-ground. I must come to some decision. I have two propositions
to submit to you: the first is, that you will allow me to see you
occasionally; there are numerous promenades about here; you go out
alone, so it would be very easy."

"Let us hear the second," said Clemence, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"If you will not grant my first, I beg of you to persuade your aunt that
she is ill and to take her with you to Plombieres or Baden. The season
is not very far advanced; there, at least, I should be able to see you."

"Let us end this folly," said the Baroness; "I have listened patiently
to you; now, in your turn, listen to me. You will be sensible, will you
not? You will leave me and go. You will go to Switzerland, and return
to the Montanvert, where you met me for the first time, which I shall
always remember, if you, yourself, do not make it painful for me to do
so. You will obey me, Octave, will you not? Give me this proof of your
esteem and friendship. You know very well that it is impossible for me
to grant what you ask; believe me, it is painful to me to be forced to
refuse you. So, say farewell to me; you shall see me again next winter
in Paris. Adieu!"

She arose and extended her hand; he took it, but, thinking to profit by
the emotion betrayed by Madame de Bergenheim's voice, he exclaimed in a
sort of transport:

"No! I will not wait until next winter to see you. I was about to submit
to your will; if you repulse me I will consult only myself; if you