mock me?"

"I swear to you I have no desire to mock you, and that if I loved any one
in the world it would be you." But he was not listening to her.

"Leave me, leave me!" And he ran toward the dark fields. The Arno formed
lagoons, upon which the moon, half veiled, shone fitfully. He walked
through the water and the mud, with a step rapid, blind, like that of one
intoxicated. She took fright and shouted. She called him. But he did not
turn his head and made no answer. He fled with alarming recklessness. She
ran after him. Her feet were hurt by the stones, and her skirt was heavy
with water, but soon she overtook him.

"What were you about to do?"

He looked at her, and saw her fright in her eyes. "Do not be afraid," he
said. "I did not see where I was going. I assure you I did not intend to
kill myself. I am desperate, but I am calm. I was only trying to escape
from you. I beg your pardon. But I could not see you any longer. Leave
me, I pray you. Farewell!"

She replied, agitated and trembling: "Come! We shall do what we can."

He remained sombre and made no reply. She repeated "Come!"

She took his arm. The living warmth of her hand animated him. He said:

"Do you wish it?"

"I can not leave you."

"You promise?"

"I must."

And, in her anxiety and anguish, she almost smiled, in thinking that he
had succeeded so quickly by his folly.

"To-morrow?" said he, inquiringly.

She replied quickly, with a defensive instinct:

"Oh, no; not to-morrow!"

"You do not love me; you regret that you have promised."

"No, I do not regret, but--"

He implored, he supplicated her. She looked at him for a moment, turned
her head, hesitated, and said, in a low tone:

"Saturday."

CHAPTER XVII

MISS BELL ASKS A QUESTION

After dinner, Miss Bell was sketching in the drawing-room. She was
tracing, on canvas, profiles of bearded Etruscans for a cushion which
Madame Marmet was to embroider. Prince Albertinelli was selecting the
wool with an almost feminine knowledge of shades. It was late when
Choulette, having, as was his habit, played briscola with the cook at the
caterer's, appeared, as joyful as if he possessed the mind of a god. He
took a seat on a sofa, beside Madame Martin, and looked at her tenderly.
Voluptuousness shone in his green eyes. He enveloped her, while talking
to her, with poetic and picturesque phrases. It was like the sketch of a
lovesong that he was improvising for her. In oddly involved