t it was unnecessary to seek any other stage than the studio for
the scene she meditated. She knew too well the fury of passion by which
Madame Steno was possessed to doubt that, as soon as she was alone
with Lincoln, she did not refuse him those kisses of which their
correspondence spoke. The snare to be laid was very simple. It required
that Alba and Lydia should be in some post of observation while the
lovers believed themselves alone, were it only for a moment. The
position of the places furnished the formidable woman with the means of
obtaining the place of espionage in all security. Situated on the second
floor, the studio occupied most of the depth of the house. The wall,
which separated it from the side of the apartments, ended in a partition
formed of colored glass, through which it was impossible to see. That
glass lighted a dark corridor adjoining the linen-room. Lydia employed
several hours of several nights in cutting with a diamond a hole, the
size of a fifty centime-piece, in one of those unpolished squares.

Her preparations had been completed several days when, notwithstanding
her absence of scruple in the satiating of her hatred, she still
hesitated to employ that mode of vengeance, so much atrocious cruelty
was there in causing a daughter to spy upon her mother. It was Alba
herself who kindled the last spark of humanity with which that
dark conscience was lighted up, and that by the most innocent of
conversations. It was the very evening of the afternoon on which she had
exchanged that sad adieu with Fanny Hafner. She was more unnerved than
usual, and she was conversing with Dorsenne in that corner of the long
hall. They did not heed the fact that Lydia drew near them, by a simple
change of seat which permitted her, while herself conversing with some
guest, to lend an ear to the words uttered by the Contessina.

It was Florent who was the subject of their conversation, and she said
to Dorsenne, who was praising him:

"What would you have? It is true I almost feel repulsion toward him.
He is to me like a being of another species. His friendship for his
brother-in-law? Yes. It is very beautiful, very touching; but it does
not touch me. It is a devotion which is not human. It is too instinctive
and too blind. Indeed, I know that I am wrong. There is that prejudice
of race which I can never entirely overcome."

Dorsenne touched her fingers at that moment, under the pretext of taking
from her her fan, i