f her serving her customers,
and he thought she looked more like a Russian princess than a
shopkeeper. He wondered now at the preference of his friend for the
petite black-haired model. Valdoreme did not seem more than twenty; she
was large, and strikingly handsome, with abundant auburn hair that was
almost red. Her beautifully moulded chin denoted perhaps too much
firmness, and was in striking contrast to the weakness of her husband's
lower face. Lacour almost trembled as she seemed to flash one look
directly at him, and, for a moment, he feared she had seen him
loitering before the window. Her eyes were large, of a limpid amber
colour, but deep within them smouldered a fire that Lacour felt he
would not care to see blaze up. His task now wore a different aspect
from what it had worn in front of the Cafe Egalite. Hesitating a
moment, he passed the shop, and, stopping at a neighbouring cafe,
ordered another glass of absinthe. It is astonishing how rapidly the
genial influence of this stimulant departs!

Fortified once again, he resolved to act before his courage had time to
evaporate, and so, goading himself on with the thought that no man
should be afraid to meet any woman, be she Russian or civilised, he
entered the shop, making his most polite bow to Madame Caspilier.

"I have come, madame," he began, "as the friend of your husband, to
talk with you regarding his affairs."

"Ah!" said Valdoreme; and Henri saw with dismay the fires deep down in
her eyes rekindle. But she merely gave some instructions to an
assistant, and, turning to Lacour, asked him to be so good as to follow
her.

She led him through the shop and up a stair at the back, throwing open
a door on the first floor. Lacour entered a neat drawing-room, with
windows opening out upon the street. Madame Caspilier seated herself at
a table, resting her elbow upon it, shading her eyes with her hand, and
yet Lacour felt them searching his very soul.

"Sit down," she said. "You are my husband's friend. What have you to
say?"

Now, it is a difficult thing for a man to tell a beautiful woman that
her husband--for the moment--prefers some one else, so Lacour began on
generalities. He said a poet might be likened to a butterfly, or
perhaps to the more industrious bee, who sipped honey from every
flower, and so enriched the world. A poet was a law unto himself, and
should not be judged harshly from what might be termed a shopkeeping
point of view. Then Lacour,