e, in a man's heart, revenge and love were
blended so equally that Montriveau himself could not know whether love
or revenge would carry all before it. That very evening he went to the
ball at which he was sure of seeing the Duchesse de Langeais, and almost
despaired of reaching her heart. He inclined to think that there was
something diabolical about this woman, who was gracious to him and
radiant with charming smiles; probably because she had no wish to
allow the world to think that she had compromised herself with M. de
Montriveau. Coolness on both sides is a sign of love; but so long as
the Duchess was the same as ever, while the Marquis looked sullen and
morose, was it not plain that she had conceded nothing? Onlookers know
the rejected lover by various signs and tokens; they never mistake the
genuine symptoms for a coolness such as some women command their adorers
to feign, in the hope of concealing their love. Everyone laughed at
Montriveau; and he, having omitted to consult his cornac, was abstracted
and ill at ease. M. de Ronquerolles would very likely have bidden him
compromise the Duchess by responding to her show of friendliness by
passionate demonstrations; but as it was, Armand de Montriveau came away
from the ball, loathing human nature, and even then scarcely ready to
believe in such complete depravity.

"If there is no executioner for such crimes," he said, as he looked up
at the lighted windows of the ballroom where the most enchanting women
in Paris were dancing, laughing, and chatting, "I will take you by the
nape of the neck, Mme la Duchesse, and make you feel something that
bites more deeply than the knife in the Place de la Greve. Steel against
steel; we shall see which heart will leave the deeper mark."

For a week or so Mme de Langeais hoped to see the Marquis de Montriveau
again; but he contented himself with sending his card every morning to
the Hotel de Langeais. The Duchess could not help shuddering each time
that the card was brought in, and a dim foreboding crossed her mind, but
the thought was vague as a presentiment of disaster. When her eyes fell
on the name, it seemed to her that she felt the touch of the implacable
man's strong hand in her hair; sometimes the words seemed like a
prognostication of a vengeance which her lively intellect invented in
the most shocking forms. She had studied him too well not to dread him.
Would he murder her, she wondered? Would that bull-necked man dash