he central scene of the book (very well done) gives
a picture of Iza insisting on bathing in a stream running through the
park (private, but practically open to the public) of the house lent to
them. When her husband has brought her warm milk in a chased-silver cup
of their host's, she casts it, empty, on the ground, and on the
husband's exclamation, "Take care!" replies coolly, "What does it
matter? It isn't _mine_."

This may be said to be the third warning-bell; but though it shocks even
the "ensorceressed" Pierre for the moment, his infatuation continues. At
last he begins to have an idea that people look askance at him; trains
of suspicion are laid; after one or two clever evasions of Iza's, the
usual "epistolary communication" forces the matter, and Constantin Ritz
at last tells the unhappy husband that not merely has "Serge"
reappeared, but there are nearly half-a-dozen "others," and that doubts
have even been suggested as to connivance on Pierre's part--doubts
strengthened by Iza's treacherous complaints as to her husband having
employed her as a model. A violent scene follows, Iza brazening it out,
and calmly demanding separation. Clemenceau goes to Rome after forcing a
duel on Serge and wounding him; but the blow has weakened, if not
destroyed, his powers in art. Fresh scandals follow, and the
irresistible Iza seduces Constantin himself, characteristically
communicating the fact in an anonymous letter to her miserable husband.
He returns (for the second time), takes no vengeance on his friend, but
sees his wife. The interview provides an audaciously devised but finely
executed curtain. She calmly proposes--how shall we say it?--to "put
herself in commission." She loves nobody but him, she says, and knows he
has loved, loves, and will love nobody but her. He ought, originally,
to have taken her offer of being his mistress, and then no harm would
have happened. She would really like to go back with him to Saint-Assise
(the honeymoon place). Suppose they do? As for _living_ with him and
being "faithful" to him--that is impossible. But she will come to him,
at his whistle, whenever he likes, and be absolutely his for a day and a
night and a morrow. In fact he may begin at once if he likes: and she
puts her arms round his neck and her mouth to his. He takes her at her
word; but when the night is half passed and she is asleep, he gently
rises, goes into the next room, fetches a stiletto paper-knife with
which he has