yed by the
modification of that ray of light which conveys the soul. Between the
box of the Comtesse Felix de Vandenesse and the step on which Raoul had
perched there were barely thirty feet; and yet it was impossible to wipe
out that distance. To a fiery being, who had hitherto known no
space between his wishes and their gratification, this imaginary but
insuperable gulf inspired a mad desire to spring to the countess with
the bound of a tiger. In a species of rage he determined to try the
ground and bow openly to the countess. She returned the bow with one of
those slight inclinations of the head with which women take from their
adorers all desire to continue their attempt. Comte Felix turned round
to see who had bowed to his wife; he saw Nathan, but did not bow, and
seemed to inquire the meaning of such audacity; then he turned back
slowly and said a few words to his wife. Evidently the door of that box
was closed to Nathan, who cast a terrible look of hatred upon Felix.

Madame d'Espard had seen the whole thing from her box, which was just
above where Raoul was standing. She raised her voice in crying bravo
to some singer, which caused Nathan to look up to her; he bowed and
received in return a gracious smile which seemed to say:--

"If they won't admit you there come here to me."

Raoul obeyed the silent summons and went to her box. He felt the need of
showing himself in a place which might teach that little Vandenesse that
fame was every whit as good as nobility, and that all doors turned on
their hinges to admit him. The marquise made him sit in front of her.
She wanted to question him.

"Madame Felix de Vandenesse is fascinating in that gown," she said,
complimenting the dress as if it were a book he had published the day
before.

"Yes," said Raoul, indifferently, "marabouts are very becoming to her;
but she seems wedded to them; she wore them on Saturday," he added, in
a careless tone, as if to repudiate the intimacy Madame d'Espard was
fastening upon him.

"You know the proverb," she replied. "There is no good fete without a
morrow."

In the matter of repartees literary celebrities are often not as quick
as women. Raoul pretended dulness, a last resort for clever men.

"That proverb is true in my case," he said, looking gallantly at the
marquise.

"My dear friend, your speech comes too late; I can't accept it," she
said, laughing. "Don't be so prudish! Come, I know how it was; you
complimented Mada