or who is so simple.... But he is better than an
author; he is a veritable man-of-the-world."

"Is not the Countess here?" asked Dorsenne, addressing Alba Steno, and
without replying any more to the action, so involuntarily insulting,
of the Baron than he had to his sly malice or to the Prince's
facetious offer. Madame Steno's absence had again inspired him with an
apprehension which the young girl dissipated by replying:

"My mother is on the terrace.... We were afraid it was too cool for
Fanny.".... It was a very simple phrase, which the Contessina uttered
very simply, as she fanned herself with a large fan of white feathers.
Each wave of it stirred the meshes of her fair hair, which she wore
curled upon her rather high forehead. Julien understood her too well not
to perceive that her voice, her gestures, her eyes, her entire being,
betrayed a nervousness at that moment almost upon the verge of sadness.

Was she still reserved from the day before, or was she a prey to one
of those inexplicable transactions, which had led Dorsenne in his
meditations of the night to such strange suspicions? Those suspicions
returned to him with the feeling that, of all the persons present, Alba
was the only one who seemed to be aware of the drama which undoubtedly
was brewing. He resolved to seek once more for the solution of the
living enigma which that singular girl was. How lovely she appeared to
him that evening with, those two expressions which gave her an almost
tragical look! The corners of her mouth drooped somewhat; her upper lip,
almost too short, disclosed her teeth, and in the lower part of her pale
face was a bitterness so prematurely sad! Why? It was not the time to
ask the question. First of all, it was necessary for the young man to go
in search of Madame Steno on the terrace, which terminated in a paradise
of Italian voluptuousness, the salon furnished in imitation of Paris.
Shrubs blossomed in large terra-cotta vases. Statuettes were to be
seen on the balustrade, and, beyond, the pines of the Villa Bonaparte
outlined their black umbrellas against a sky of blue velvet, strewn with
large stars. A vague aroma of acacias, from a garden near by, floated
in the air, which was light, caressing, and warm. The soft atmosphere
sufficed to convict of falsehood the Contessina, who had evidently
wished to justify the tete-a-tete of her mother and of Maitland. The two
lovers were indeed together in the perfume, the mystery and the