convulsed with surprise. It
was a wonderful and unexpected work of a master; one of those works
which agitate the mind and give you something to dream of for years.
People who look at such things at the outset remain silent, and then go
thoughtfully away, and only speak later on of the worth of the painting.
Du Roy, having contemplated it for some time, said: "It is nice to be

able to afford such trifles."

But as he was pushed against by others coming to see it, he went away,
still keeping on his arm Susan's little hand, which he squeezed
slightly. She said: "Would you like a glass of champagne? Come to the
refreshment buffet. We shall find papa there."

And they slowly passed back through the saloons, in which the crowd was
increasing, noisy and at home, the fashionable crowd of a public fete.
George all at once thought he heard a voice say: "It is Laroche-Mathieu
and Madame Du Roy." These words flitted past his ear like those distant
sounds borne by the wind. Whence came they? He looked about on all
sides, and indeed saw his wife passing by on the minister's arm. They
were chatting intimately in a low tone, smiling, and with their eyes
fixed on one another's. He fancied he noticed that people whispered as
they looked at them, and he felt within him a stupid and brutal desire
to spring upon them, these two creatures, and smite them down. She was
making him ridiculous. He thought of Forestier. Perhaps they were
saying: "That cuckold Du Roy." Who was she? A little parvenu sharp
enough, but really not over-gifted with parts. People visited him
because they feared him, because they felt his strength, but they must
speak in unrestrained fashion of this little journalistic household. He
would never make any great way with this woman, who would always render
his home a suspected one, who would always compromise herself, whose
very bearing betrayed the woman of intrigue. She would now be a cannon
ball riveted to his ankle. Ah! if he had only known, if he had only
guessed. What a bigger game he would have played. What a fine match he
might have won with this little Susan for stakes. How was it he had been
blind enough not to understand that?

They reached the dining-room--an immense apartment, with marble columns,
and walls hung with old tapestry. Walter perceived his descriptive
writer, and darted forward to take him by the hands. He was intoxicated
with joy. "Have you seen everything? Have you shown him everything,
Susa