ow to come to an
understanding, since he was compelled to choose between his trivial
passion for her--a passion quenched already--and his deep, almost
spiritual devotion to Mademoiselle de Kercadiou.

His honour, he considered, demanded of him that he should at once
deliver himself from a false position. La Binet would make a scene, of
course; but he knew the proper specific to apply to hysteria of that
nature. Money, after all, has its uses.

He pulled the cord. The carriage rolled to a standstill; a footman
appeared at the door.

"To the Theatre Feydau," said he.

The footman vanished and the berline rolled on. M. de Chabrillane
laughed cynically.

"I'll trouble you not to be amused," snapped the Marquis. "You
don't understand." Thereafter he explained himself. It was a rare
condescension in him. But, then, he could not bear to be misunderstood
in such a matter. Chabrillane grew serious in reflection of the Marquis'
extreme seriousness.

"Why not write?" he suggested. "Myself, I confess that I should find it
easier."

Nothing could better have revealed M. le Marquis' state of mind than his
answer.

"Letters are liable both to miscarriage and to misconstruction. Two
risks I will not run. If she did not answer, I should never know which
had been incurred. And I shall have no peace of mind until I know that I
have set a term to this affair. The berline can wait while we are at
the theatre. We will go on afterwards. We will travel all night if
necessary."

"Peste!" said M. de Chabrillane with a grimace. But that was all.

The great travelling carriage drew up at the lighted portals of the
Feydau, and M. le Marquis stepped out. He entered the theatre with
Chabrillane, all unconsciously to deliver himself into the hands of
Andre-Louis.

Andre-Louis was in a state of exasperation produced by Climene's long
absence from Nantes in the company of M. le Marquis, and fed by the
unspeakable complacency with which M. Binet regarded that event of quite
unmistakable import.

However much he might affect the frame of mind of the stoics, and
seek to judge with a complete detachment, in the heart and soul of him
Andre-Louis was tormented and revolted. It was not Climene he blamed.
He had been mistaken in her. She was just a poor weak vessel driven
helplessly by the first breath, however foul, that promised her
advancement. She suffered from the plague of greed; and he congratulated
himself upon having discovered it bef