he would have placed his batteries. And then he would
think of quieting Adrienne, of regaining her, perhaps. On returning to
the ministry, he caused some inquiries to be made as to whether Madame
were not sick. Madame had gone out. She had gone out as if she were
making a pilgrimage to a cemetery, to the apartment in Rue de la
Chaussee-d'Antin, whereon might have been written: _Here lies_. It was
like the tomb of her happiness.

She would not see Sulpice again. In the evening, however, she consented
to speak to him.

Her poor, gentle face was extremely pale, and as if distorted by some
violent pain.

"You will find some excuse," she said, "for announcing that I am ill. I
am leaving for Grenoble. I have written to my uncle, the Doctor expects
me, and all that now remains to me is a place in his house."

"Adrienne!" murmured Sulpice.

She closed her eyes, for this suppliant voice doubtless caused her a
new grief, but neither gesture nor word escaped her. She was like a
walking automaton. Even her eyes expressed neither reproach nor anger,
they seemed dim.

There was something of death in her aspect.

After a few moments, she said: "I hope that my resolve will not work any
prejudice to your political position. In that direction I will still do
my duty to the full extent of my strength. But people will not trouble
themselves to inquire whether I am at Grenoble or Paris. They trouble
themselves very little about me."

By a gesture, he sought to retain her. She had already entered her room,
and Vaudrey felt that between this woman and him there stood something
like a wall. He had now only to love Marianne.

To love Marianne, ah! yes, the unhappy man, he still loved her. When he
thought of Marianne, it was more in wrath, when he thought of Adrienne,
it was more in pity; but, certainly, his wife's determination to leave
Paris caused him less emotion than the thought that his mistress was to
wed Rosas.

That very evening he went to Marianne's.

They told him that Madame was at the theatre. Where? With whom? Neither
Jean nor Justine knew.

Vaudrey despised himself for jealously questioning the servants who,
when together, would burst with laughter in speaking of him.

"Oh! miserable fool!" he said to himself. "There was only one woman who
loved you:--Adrienne!"

Nevertheless, he recalled Marianne in the hours of past love, and the
recollection of her kisses and sobs still made his flesh creep. The
tawny tints