king about the streets for awhile, la Peyrade, in the midst of
his indignation, turned to thoughts of Madame de Godollo, whose
image, to tell the truth, had been much in his mind since their former
interview.

CHAPTER VI. 'TWAS THUS THEY BADE ADIEU

Not only once when the countess met the barrister at the Thuilliers had
she left the room; but the same performance took place at each of
their encounters; and la Peyrade had convinced himself, without knowing
exactly why, that in each case, this affectation of avoiding him,
signified something that was not indifference. To have paid her another
visit immediately would certainly have been very unskilful; but now a
sufficient time had elapsed to prove him to be a man who was master of
himself. Accordingly, he returned upon his steps to the Boulevard de la
Madeleine, and without asking the porter if the countess was at home, he
passed the lodge as if returning to the Thuilliers', and rang the bell
of the entresol.

The maid who opened the door asked him, as before, to wait until she
notified her mistress; but, on this occasion, instead of showing him
into the dining-room, she ushered him into a little room arranged as a
library.

He waited long, and knew not what to think of the delay. Still, he
reassured himself with the thought that if she meant to dismiss him he
would not have been asked to wait at all. Finally the maid reappeared,
but even then it was not to introduce him.

"Madame la comtesse," said the woman, "was engaged on a matter of
business, but she begged monsieur be so kind as to wait, and to amuse
himself with the books in the library, because she might be detained
longer than she expected."

The excuse, both in form and substance, was certainly not discouraging,
and la Peyrade looked about him to fulfil the behest to amuse himself.
Without opening any of the carved rosewood bookcases, which enclosed a
collection of the most elegantly bound volumes he had ever laid his
eyes upon, he saw on an oblong table with claw feet a pell-mell of books
sufficient for the amusement of a man whose attention was keenly alive
elsewhere.

But, as he opened one after another of the various volumes, he began to
fancy that a feast of Tantalus had been provided for him: one book
was English, another German, a third Russian; there was even one in
cabalistic letters that seemed Turkish. Was this a polyglottic joke the
countess had arranged for him?

One volume, however