self, almost gloomy, and reproached Guy for
the first time for smiling or jesting on so serious a matter.

Discontented with himself, he entered his house. His servant was waiting
for him. He brought him a blue envelope on a card-tray.

"A telegram for monsieur le duc."

Rosas tore it open in a mechanical way. It was from one of his London
friends, Lord Lindsay, who having learned of Rosas's return, sent him a
pressing invitation. If he did not hasten to Paris to welcome him, it
was simply because grave political affairs demanded his presence in
London.

The duke, while taking off his gloves, looked at the crumpled despatch
lying under the lamp. He was, like most travellers, superstitious.
Perhaps this despatch had arrived in the nick of time to prevent him
from committing some act of folly.

But what folly?

He still felt Marianne's kiss on his lips, burning like ice.
To-morrow,--in a few hours,--his first thought, his only thought would
be to find that woman again, to experience that voluptuous impression,
that dream that had penetrated his heart. A danger, Lissac had said. The
feline eyes of Marianne had a dangerous ardor; but it was their charm,
their strength and their adorable seductiveness, that filtered like a
flame through her long, fair lashes.

He closed his eyes to picture Mademoiselle Kayser, to inhale the
atmosphere, to enjoy something of the perfume surrounding her.

A danger!

Guy was perhaps right. The best love is that which is never gathered,
which remains immature, like a blossom in spring that never becomes a
fruit. Lord Lindsay's despatch arrived seasonably. It was a chance or a
warning.

In any case, what would Rosas risk by passing a few days in London, and
losing the burning of that kiss? The sea-breezes would perhaps efface
it.

"I am certainly feverish," the duke thought. "It was assuredly necessary
to speak to Lissac. It was also necessary to speak to her," he added, in
a dissatisfied, anxious, almost angry tone.

A danger!

Lissac had acted imprudently in uttering that word, which addressed to
such a man as Rosas, had something alluring about it. What irritated the
duke was Guy's reply, asserting that he had not been Marianne's lover,
but that Marianne had had other lovers. Others? What did Lissac know of
this? A species of jealous frenzy was blended with the feverish desire
that Marianne's kiss had injected into Rosas's veins. He would have
liked to know the truth, to see