oughts to the beautiful face, with its pure lines, which he
had last seen in the Bois de Boulogue, leaning on Mora's shoulder. What
had become of this unfortunate girl when this prop had failed her?
Would this lesson be of use to her in the future? And, by a strange
coincidence, while he was thinking thus of Felicia, a great white
greyhound was bounding up an alley of green trees on the slopes of the
neighbouring garden. It was like Kadour--the same short hair, the same
mouth, red, fierce, and delicate. Paul, before his open window, was
assailed in a moment by all sorts of visions, sad or charming. Perhaps
the beauty of the scene before his eyes made his thoughts wander. Under
the orange-trees and lemon-trees in rows, laden with their golden
fruit, stretched immense fields of violets in regular and packed beds,
separated by little irrigation canals, whose white stone cut up the
exuberant verdure.

An exquisite ordour of violets dried in the sun was rising--a hot
boudoir scent, enervating, enfeebling, which called up for de Gery
feminine visions--Aline, Felicia--permeating the fairy-like landscape,
in this blue-charged atmosphere, this heavenly day, which one might have
called the perfume become visible of so many open flowers. The creaking
of a door made him open his eyes. Some one had just gone into the next
room. He heard the rustle of a dress against the thin partition, a leaf
turned in a book which could not be very interesting, for a long sigh
turning into a yawn made him start. Was he still sleeping, dreaming? Had
he not heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert," so much in keeping
with the burning temperature out of doors? No--nothing more. He fell
asleep again, and this time all the confused images which pursued him
fixed themselves in a dream--a very pleasant dream.

He was on his honeymoon with Aline. She was a delicious wife, her clear
eyes full of love and faith, which only knew, only looked at him. In
this very room, on the other side of the partition, she was sitting in
white morning dress, which smelt of violets and of the fine lace of her
trousseau. They were having breakfast--one of those solitary breakfasts
of a honeymoon, served in their bedroom, opposite the blue sea, and the
clear sky, which tinge with azure the glass in which one drinks, the
eyes where one sees one's self, the future--life--the distant horizon.
Oh! how good it was; what a divine youth-giving light; how happy they
were!

And al