nk," she said, "that when I leave my hotel I cannot get
for myself a garret somewhere, where there will be a door with a
strong bolt, with which I can bar the entrance of any unpleasant
visitors?"

Felix looked at her in amazement; he constrained himself to take a
more friendly tone.

"I must call your attention to one fact. We are in Paris, and the
French marital law is strict. A wife must dwell under her husband's
roof. She must go where he goes. She must obey him."

Eveline was now busy undoing the gold sandals which bound her feet.
She looked steadily at Kaulmann, with her eyes glowing like lamps.

"I must call your attention," she said, "to one fact. We are in Paris,
and according to the French law those persons who have been married
before the altar, and not before the civil authorities, are not
considered legally married, and that, therefore, our marriage is null
and void."

Kaulmann sprang to his feet as if he had been bitten by a tarantula.

"What are you saying?" he cried, in a voice that was almost a shriek.

Eveline had loosened the golden sandals. She stood before Felix in her
bare feet, and threw him the sandals.

"These belong to you. I am once more Eva Dirkmal. I belong to myself."

"Who has told you this?" stammered the banker, pale with rage.

"The Abbe Samuel, who advised you to treat me in the same manner."

Kaulmann felt the room going round.

"And now," continued Eveline, with a dignified motion of her hand, "I
must remind you that this is the dressing-room of a young girl."

Felix did not wait to have his dismissal repeated; he took his hat and
went without another word. He ran away, and he ran so fast that he
took no heed where he was going till he stumbled and fell.

All was over; he had played his last card and lost. Everything was
gone; there was no more help. He had two courses open to him: he might
put a pistol to his head, and so end the drama, or he might take all
the money in his counting-house and fly. He chose the last.

CHAPTER XXXII

CRUSHED

Eveline felt as if she had been given new life. She was no longer
married, and yet she was not a widow. She had to shed no tears over
happiness that had vanished, no regrets for domestic joys. Her heart
was full of newly awakened desires, hopes she hardly dared to confess
to herself, dreams that delighted while they embarrassed her--a
delicious riddle that she feared to guess. Next day, however, when she
heard that Ka