t efforts of Parisian luxury, he was
surprised at the aspect of this shell, like that from which Venus rose
out of the sea. Whether from an effect of contrast between the darkness
from which he issued and the light which bathed his soul, whether from
a comparison which he swiftly made between this scene and that of their
first interview, he experienced one of those delicate sensations which
true poetry gives. Perceiving in the midst of this retreat, which
had been opened to him as by a fairy's magic wand, the masterpiece of
creation, this girl, whose warmly colored tints, whose soft skin--soft,
but slightly gilded by the shadows, by I know not what vaporous effusion
of love--gleamed as though it reflected the rays of color and light, his
anger, his desire for vengeance, his wounded vanity, all were lost.

Like an eagle darting on his prey, he took her utterly to him, set her
on his knees, and felt with an indescribable intoxication the voluptuous
pressure of this girl, whose richly developed beauties softly enveloped
him.

"Come to me, Paquita!" he said, in a low voice.

"Speak, speak without fear!" she said. "This retreat was built for
love. No sound can escape from it, so greatly was it desired to guard
avariciously the accents and music of the beloved voice. However loud
should be the cries, they would not be heard without these walls. A
person might be murdered, and his moans would be as vain as if he were
in the midst of the great desert."

"Who has understood jealousy and its needs so well?"

"Never question me as to that," she answered, untying with a gesture of
wonderful sweetness the young man's scarf, doubtless in order the better
to behold his neck.

"Yes, there is the neck I love so well!" she said. "Wouldst thou please
me?"

This interrogation, rendered by the accent almost lascivious, drew
De Marsay from the reverie in which he had been plunged by Paquita's
authoritative refusal to allow him any research as to the unknown being
who hovered like a shadow about them.

"And if I wished to know who reigns here?"

Paquita looked at him trembling.

"It is not I, then?" he said, rising and freeing himself from the girl,
whose head fell backwards. "Where I am, I would be alone."

"Strike, strike!..." said the poor slave, a prey to terror.

"For what do you take me, then?... Will you answer?"

Paquita got up gently, her eyes full of tears, took a poniard from one
of the two ebony pieces of furniture