ignon, with all his stifled capacity, his so keen
intellect, was in exactly the state which might have been looked for in
the woman. His heart was beating violently, the perspiration broke out
over him as he stood in his dandy's trappings; he was afraid as yet to
lay a hand on the corner-stone which upheld the pyramid of his life with
Diane. So much it cost him to know the truth. The cleverest men are fain
to deceive themselves on one or two points if the truth once known is
likely to humiliate them in their own eyes, and damage themselves with
themselves. Victurnien forced his own irresolution into the field by
committing himself.

"What is the matter with you?" Diane de Maufrigneuse had said at once,
at the sight of her beloved Victurnien's face.

"Why, dear Diane, I am in such a perplexity; a man gone to the bottom
and at his last gasp is happy in comparison."

"Pshaw! it is nothing," said she; "you are a child. Let us see now; tell
me about it."

"I am hopelessly in debt. I have come to the end of my tether."

"Is that all?" said she, smiling at him. "Money matters can always be
arranged somehow or other; nothing is irretrievable except disasters in
love."

Victurnien's mind being set at rest by this swift comprehension of his
position, he unrolled the bright-colored web of his life for the last
two years and a half; but it was the seamy side of it which he displayed
with something of genius, and still more of wit, to his Diane. He told
his tale with the inspiration of the moment, which fails no one in great
crises; he had sufficient artistic skill to set it off by a varnish of
delicate scorn for men and things. It was an aristocrat who spoke. And
the Duchess listened as she could listen.

One knee was raised, for she sat with her foot on a stool. She rested
her elbow on her knee and leant her face on her hand so that her fingers
closed daintily over her shapely chin. Her eyes never left his; but
thoughts by myriads flitted under the blue surface, like gleams of
stormy light between two clouds. Her forehead was calm, her mouth
gravely intent--grave with love; her lips were knotted fast by
Victurnien's lips. To have her listening thus was to believe that
a divine love flowed from her heart. Wherefore, when the Count had
proposed flight to this soul, so closely knit to his own, he could not
help crying, "You are an angel!"

The fair Maufrigneuse made silent answer; but she had not spoken as yet.

"Good, ver