the French novelist as the one from whom to obtain his information,
demonstrated that the feline character of his physiognomy was not
deceptive. He understood Dorsenne much better than Dorsenne understood
him. He knew him to be nervous, on the one hand, and perspicacious on
the other. If there was an intrigue between Maitland and Madame Steno,
Julien had surely observed it, and, approached in a certain manner, he
would surely betray it. Moreover--for that violent and crafty nature
abounded in perplexities--Boleslas, who passionately admired the
author's talent, experienced a sort of indefinable attraction in
exhibiting himself before him in the role of a frantic lover. He was one
of the persons who would have his photograph taken on his deathbed, so
much importance did he attach to his person. He would, no doubt, have
been insulted, if the author of 'Une Eglogue Mondaine' had portrayed
in a book himself and his love for Countess Steno, and yet he had only
approached the author, had only chosen him as a confidant with the vague
hope of impressing him. He had even thought of suggesting to him some
creation resembling himself. Yes, Gorka was very complex, for he was not
contented with deceiving his wife, he allowed the confiding creature to
form a friendship with the daughter of her husband's mistress. Still, he
deceived her with remorse, and had never ceased bearing her an affection
as sorrowful as it was respectful. But it required Dorsenne to admit
the like anomalies, and the rare sensation of being observed in his
passionate frenzy attracted the young man to some one who was at once
a sure confidant, a possible portrayer, a moral accomplice. It was
necessary now, but it would not be an easy matter, to make of him his
involuntary detective.

"You see," resumed he suddenly, "to what miserable, detailed inquiries
I have descended, I who always had a horror of espionage, as of some
terrible degradation. I shall question you frankly, for you are my
friend. And what a friend! I intended to use artifice with you at first,
but I was ashamed. Passion takes possession of me and distorts me.
No matter what infamy presents itself, I rush into it, and then I am
afraid. Yes, I am afraid of myself! But I have suffered so much! You do
not understand? Well! Listen," continued he, covering Dorsenne with one
of those glances so scrutinizing that not a gesture, not a quiver of his
eyelids, escaped him, "and tell me if you have ever imagin