And for the young
bloods, whose greatest regret was that they could not send forth a
daughter of joy into the Champs Elysee in her carriage, she had ever
sent them about their business. She had no corner of pardon for them.
She kissed her lions, she hugged the lion's cub that rode back and
forth with her to the menagerie day by day--her companion in her modest
apartments; but sell one of these kisses to a young gentleman of Paris,
whose ambition was to master all the vices, and then let the vices
master him!--she had not come to that, though, as she said in some
bitter moments, she had come far.

Count Ploare--there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world,
who had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor
people--he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a
brief return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers,
in Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her--yes,
actually marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her
a service, not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so
courteous and considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her
occasionally, but never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was
impossible. At last he spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought
to have been grateful, but she was not. Why should she be? She did
not know why he wished to marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was
selfish. Well, she would be selfish. She did not care for him. If she
married him, it would be because she was selfish: because of position,
ease; for protection in this shameless Paris; and for a home, she who
had been a wanderer since her birth.

It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature
revolted. No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of
man, for three months that were burned into her brain--no more! If
ever she loved--all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the
affection she gave her lions freely.

The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered
a price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as
such a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave
gifts to his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her
trials. And so the thing went on, and the people talked.

As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston's box. Instantly they became
riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and b