enetrating voice
that women sometimes have:

"My friend!"

"Friend!" he thought; "yes, certainly. I will raise no dispute as to the
word, provided the fact is recognized. What matters the color of the
flag? Only fools trouble themselves about that. 'Friend' is not the
throne I aspire to, but it is the road that leads to it. So then, let it
be 'friend,' while waiting for better. This word is very pleasant to hear
when spoken in these siren's accents, and when at the same time the eyes
say 'lover!'"

"Will you always love me thus?" Octave asked, whose face beamed with
virtuous pledges.

"Always!" sighed Clemence, without lowering eyes under the burning glance
which met hers.

"You will be the soul of my soul; the angel of my heaven?"

"Your sister," she said, with a sweet smile, as she caressed her lover's
cheek with her hand.

He felt the blood mount to his face at this caress, and turned his eyes
away with a dreamy air.

"I probably am one of the greatest fools that has ever existed since the
days of Joseph and Hippolytus," thought he.

He remained silent and apparently indifferent for several moments.

"Of what are you thinking?" asked Madame de Bergenheim, surprised by
Octave's silence and rather listless air.

He gave a start of surprise at this question.

"May I die if I tell her!" he thought; "she must think me ridiculous
enough as it is."

"Tell me, I wish you to speak out," she continued, in that despotic tone
which a woman assumes when sure of her empire.

Instead of replying, as she demanded, he gave her a long, questioning
glance, and it would have been impossible at that moment for her to keep
a single secret from her lover. Madame de Bergenheim felt the magnetic
influence of his penetrating glance so deeply that it seemed to her these
sharp eyes were fathoming her very heart. She felt intensely disturbed to
be gazed at in that way, and, in order to free herself from this mute
questioning, she leaned her head upon Octave's shoulder, as she said
softly:

"Do not look at me like that or I shall not love your eyes any more."

Her straw hat, whose ribbons were not tied, slipped and fell, dragging
with it the comb which confined her beautiful hair, and it fell in
disorder over her shoulders. Gerfaut passed his hand behind the charming
head which rested upon his breast, in order to carry this silky, perfumed
fleece to his lips. At the same time, he gently pressed the supple form
which, as it b