muttered at last.

"I cannot," he said with a voice and a look of the utmost anguish. "I'll
do whatever you like, but not that, dear love! Oh, I beg you not to
insist on that!"

Thereupon she wasted no more time in discussion but took his head
between her small hands, pushed it back a little, bent down and glued
her mouth to his in a long, long kiss. He shivered violently; he
trembled beneath her touch; his eyes were closed, and he was beside
himself. She lifted him to his feet.

"Go," said she simply.

He walked off, making toward the door. But as he passed out she took him
in her arms again, became meek and coaxing, lifted her face to his and
rubbed her cheek against his waistcoat, much as a cat might have done.

"Where's the fine house?" she whispered in laughing embarrassment, like
a little girl who returns to the pleasant things she has previously
refused.

"In the Avenue de Villiers."

"And there are carriages there?"

"Yes."

"Lace? Diamonds?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how good you are, my old pet! You know it was all jealousy just
now! And this time I solemnly promise you it won't be like the first,
for now you understand what's due to a woman. You give all, don't you?
Well then, I don't want anybody but you! Why, look here, there's some
more for you! There and there AND there!"

When she had pushed him from the room after firing his blood with a rain
of kisses on hands and on face, she panted awhile. Good heavens, what an
unpleasant smell there was in that slut Mathilde's dressing room! It
was warm, if you will, with the tranquil warmth peculiar to rooms in the
south when the winter sun shines into them, but really, it smelled far
too strong of stale lavender water, not to mention other less cleanly
things! She opened the window and, again leaning on the window sill,
began watching the glass roof of the passage below in order to kill
time.

Muffat went staggering downstairs. His head was swimming. What should
he say? How should he broach the matter which, moreover, did not concern
him? He heard sounds of quarreling as he reached the stage. The second
act was being finished, and Prulliere was beside himself with wrath,
owing to an attempt on Fauchery's part to cut short one of his speeches.

"Cut it all out then," he was shouting. "I should prefer that! Just
fancy, I haven't two hundred lines, and they're still cutting me down.
No, by Jove, I've had enough of it; I give the part up."

He took a little