n Halsdt, who sat the entire evening far back, and entirely concealed
from view, covered his face with both hands, and remained in that
posture for several minutes. When he withdrew them, the alteration in
his countenance was actually fearful. Though his cheeks were pale as
death, his eyes were bloodshot, and the lids swelled and congested; his
lips, too, were protruded, and trembled like one in an ague, and his
clasped hands shook against the chair.

'Norvins would have asked him if he were ill, but was afraid even to
speak to him, while again his attention was drawn off by the voices near
him.

'"Not got a bouquet?" said the large man to a lady beside him; "_pardi_,
that's too bad. Let me assist you. I perceive that this pretty damsel,
who turns her shoulder so disdainfully towards us, makes little use of
hers, and so _avec permission_, mademoiselle!" With that he stood up,
and leaning across the division into their box, stretched over his hand
and took the bouquet that lay before Marguerite, and handed it to the
lady at his side.

'Marguerite started back, as her eyes flashed with offended pride, and
then turned them on her lover. He stood up, not to resent the insult,
but to offer her his arm to leave the box. She gave him a look: never
in a glance was there read such an expression of withering contempt; and
drawing her shawl around her, she said in a low voice, "The carriage."
Before Edward could open the box door to permit her to pass out, Van
Halsdt sprang to the front of the box, and stretched over. Then came
a crash, a cry, a confused shout of many voices together, and the word
_polisson_ above all; but hurrying Marguerite along, Norvins hastened
down the stairs and assisted her into the carriage. As she took her
place, he made a gesture as if to follow, but she drew the door towards
her, and with a shuddering expression, "No!" leaned back, and closed the
door. The _caleche_ moved on, and Norvins was alone in the street.

'I shall not attempt to describe the terrific rush of sensations that
came crowding on his brain. Coward as he was, he would have braved a
hundred deaths rather than endure such agony. He turned towards the
theatre, but his craven spirit seemed to paralyse his very limbs; he
felt as if were his antagonist before him, he would not have had energy
to speak to him. Marguerite's look was ever before him; it sank into his
inmost soul; it was burning there like a fire, that no memory nor after
s