She rose and sent the dog away, sent him away pitilessly
with voice and gesture, pointing to the house in the distance, with a
stern face which poor Kiss had never seen. Then she hastily wiped her
eyes and her moist hands; for the train for Paris was approaching and she
knew that in a moment she should need all her courage.

Claire's first thought on leaving the train was to take a cab and drive
to the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix, who had, as her grandfather
alleged, supplied Georges with a diamond necklace. If that should prove
to be true, then all the rest was true. Her dread of learning the truth
was so great that, when she reached her destination and alighted in front
of that magnificent establishment, she stopped, afraid to enter. To give
herself countenance, she pretended to be deeply interested in the jewels
displayed in velvet cases; and one who had seen her, quietly but
fashionably dressed, leaning forward to look at that gleaming and
attractive display, would have taken her for a happy wife engaged in
selecting a bracelet, rather than an anxious, sorrow-stricken soul who
had come thither to discover the secret of her life.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon. At that time of day, in winter,
the Rue de la Paix presents a truly dazzling aspect. In that luxurious
neighborhood, life moves quickly between the short morning and the early
evening. There are carriages moving swiftly in all directions, a
ceaseless rumbling, and on the sidewalks a coquettish haste, a rustling
of silks and furs. Winter is the real Parisian season. To see that
devil's own Paris in all its beauty and wealth and happiness one must
watch the current of its life beneath a lowering sky, heavy with snow.
Nature is absent from the picture, so to speak. No wind, no sunlight.
Just enough light for the dullest colors, the faintest reflections to
produce an admirable effect, from the reddish-gray tone of the monuments
to the gleams of jet which bespangle a woman's dress. Theatre and concert
posters shine resplendent, as if illumined by the effulgence of the
footlights. The shops are crowded. It seems that all those people must be
preparing for perpetual festivities. And at such times, if any sorrow is
mingled with that bustle and tumult, it seems the more terrible for that
reason. For five minutes Claire suffered martyrdom worse than death.
Yonder, on the road to Savigny, in the vast expanse of the deserted
fields, her despair spread out as i