g a good
deal of money. I was not surprised. You were born to succeed. The day of
your"--and she pointed at the spot between the window and the wardrobe
with the mirror--"apparition, I was vexed with Maurice for having given
you a suicide's rags to wear. You pleased me.... Oh, it was not your
good looks! Don't think that women are as sensitive as people say to
outward attractions. We consider other things in love. There is a sort
of---- Well, anyhow I loved you as soon as I saw you."

The shadows grew deeper.

She asked:

"You are not an angel, are you? Maurice believes you are; but he
believes so many things, Maurice." She questioned Arcade with her eyes
and smiled maliciously. "Confess that you have been fooling him, and
that you are no angel?"

Arcade replied:

"I only aspire to please you; I will always be what you want me to be."

Gilberte decided that he was no angel; first, because one never is an
angel; secondly, for more detailed reasons which drew her thoughts to
the question of love. He did not argue the matter with her, and once
again words were found inadequate to express their feelings.

Outside, the rain was falling thick and fast, the windows were
streaming, lightning lit up the muslin curtains, and thunder shook the
panes. Gilberte made the sign of the Cross and remained with her head
hidden in her lover's bosom.

At this moment Maurice entered the room. He came in wet and smiling,
confident, tranquil, happy, to announce to Arcade the good news that
with his half-share in the previous day's race at Longchamps the angel
had won twelve times his stake. Surprising the lady and the angel in
their embrace, he became furious; anger gripped the muscles of his
throat, his face grew red with blood, and the veins stood out on his
forehead. He sprang with clenched fists towards Gilberte, and then
suddenly stopped.

Interrupted motion was transformed into heat. Maurice fumed. His anger
did not arm him, like Archilochus, with lyrical vengeance. He merely
applied an offensive epithet to his unfaithful one.

Meanwhile she had recovered her dignified bearing. She rose, full of
modesty and grace, and gave her accuser a look which expressed both
offended virtue and loving forgiveness.

But as young d'Esparvieu continued to shower coarse and monotonous
insults on her, she grew angry in her turn.

"You are a pretty sort of person, are you not?" she said. "Did I run
after this Arcade of yours? It was you who