, a message which ran: _The Minister of the Interior passed the
entire day yesterday at Guise, at Monsieur Delair's, the deputy from
L'Aisne. He dined and slept at the house of his host. Monsieur Vaudrey
is to return to Paris this morning, at eleven o'clock._

Then he showed the news to Adrienne, and laughed as he said:

"It is surprising! one cannot take a single step without it appears in
print and the entire population is informed at once!"

"Tell me everything," Adrienne replied, as she embraced him with her
glance. "Are you tired? You look pale. How did you spend the day? You
made a speech? Were you applauded?"

It was mainly by kisses that Vaudrey answered. What could he say to
Adrienne? She knew perfectly well how similar all these gatherings were,
with their official routine. Monsieur Delair had been very agreeable,
but the minister had necessarily had to endure much talk, much
importunity.

"The day seemed very long to me!"

"And to me also," she said.

Sulpice indeed returned from Guise, but the last train on the previous
night had taken him to Rue Prony, at Marianne's. He had then found out
the secret of remaining at her side undisturbed for a long time, and the
telegraph, managed by the Director of the Press, enabled him to prove an
alibi to Adrienne from time to time. He had taken to Marianne a huge
bouquet of fresh flowers gathered in the park at Guise for Madame
Vaudrey by Monsieur Delair's two daughters. That appeared to him to be
quite natural.

Marianne, who was waiting for him, put the flowers in the Japanese vases
and said to him as she threw her bare arms around him:

"Very good! You thought of me!----"

The next morning Vaudrey left, more than ever enchained by the delight
of her embraces. He sometimes returned on foot, to breathe the
vivifying freshness of the roseate dawn, or taking a cab, he stretched
himself out wearily therein, as he drove to the ministry, musing over
the hours so recently passed and striving to arrest them in their
flight, to enjoy again their seductive joy and to squeeze as from a
delicious fruit, all their intoxicating poetry, delight and fascination.

He closed his eyes. He saw Marianne again with her eyes veiled as he
kissed her, he drank in the odor of her hair that fell like a sort of
fair cover over the lace pillow. It seemed that he was permeated with
her perfume. He breathed the air with wide-open nostrils to inhale it
again, to recover its scent and pre