cannot make it out," sighed Daniel. "I must consult Brevan."

On his writing-table he found that important and urgent work which the
minister had intrusted to his hands still unfinished. But the minister,
the department, his position, his preferment,--all these considerations
weighed as nothing in comparison with his passion.

He went down, therefore; and, while his carriage drove to his friend's
house, he thought of the surprise he would cause Maxime.

When he arrived there, he found M. de Brevan standing in his shirt-
sleeves before an immense marble table, covered all over with pots and
bottles, with brushes, combs, and sponges, with pincers, polishers, and
files, making his toilet.

If he expected Daniel, he had not expected him so soon; for his features
assumed an expression which seemed to prohibit all confidential talk.
But Daniel saw nothing. He shook hands with his friend, and, sinking
heavily into a chair, he said,--

"I went to Miss Brandon. She has made me promise all she wanted. I
cannot imagine how it came about!"

"Let us hear," said M. de Brevan.

Then, without hesitation, and with all the minutest details, Daniel told
him how Miss Brandon had taken him into her little boudoir, and how she
had exculpated herself from all complicity with Malgat by showing him
the letters written by that wretched man.

"Strange letters!" he said, "which, if they are authentic"--

M. de Brevan shrugged his shoulders.

"You were forewarned," he said, "and you have promised all she wanted!
Do you not think she might have made you sign your own death-sentence?"

"But Kergrist?" said Daniel. "Kergrist's brother is her friend."

"I dare say. But do you imagine that brother is any cleverer than you
are?"

Although he was by no means fully satisfied, Daniel went on, describing
his amazement when Miss Brandon told him that she did not love Count
Ville-Handry.

But Maxime burst out laughing, and interrupted him, saying with bitter
irony,--

"Of course! And then she went on, telling you that she had never yet
loved anybody, having vainly looked in the world for the man of whom she
dreamed. She painted to you the phoenix in such colors, that you had to
say to yourself, 'What does she mean? That phoenix! Why, she means me!'
That has tickled you prodigiously. She has thrown herself at your
feet; you have raised her up; she has fainted; she has sobbed like a
distressed dove in your arms; you have lost your head."

Da