to plunge into Satanism
right up to the hilt," said Chantelouve after a silence.

"Yes, and it would really be more interesting if these scenes were not
so remote. What would have a timely appeal would be a study of the
Diabolism of the present day."

"No doubt," said Chantelouve, pleasantly.

"For," Durtal went on, looking at him intently, "unheard-of things are
going on right now. I have heard tell of sacrilegious priests, of a
certain canon who has revived the sabbats of the Middle Ages."

Chantelouve did not betray himself by so much as a flicker of the
eyelids. Calmly he uncrossed his legs and looking up at the ceiling he
said, "Alas, certain scabby wethers succeed in stealing into the fold,
but they are so rare as hardly to be worth thinking about." And he
deftly changed the subject by speaking of a book he had just read about
the Fronde.

Durtal, somewhat embarrassed, said nothing. He understood that
Chantelouve refused to speak of his relations with Canon Docre.

"My dear," said Mme. Chantelouve, addressing her husband, "you have
forgotten to turn up your lamp wick. It is smoking. I can smell it from
here, even through the closed door."

She was most evidently conveying him a dismissal. Chantelouve rose and,
with a vaguely malicious smile, excused himself as being obliged to
continue his work. He shook hands with Durtal, begged him not to stay
away so long in future, and gathering up the skirts of his dressing-gown
he left the room.

She followed him with her eyes, then rose, in her turn, ran to the
door, assured herself with a glance that it was closed, then returned to
Durtal, who was leaning against the mantel. Without a word she took his
head between her hands, pressed her lips to his mouth and opened it.

He grunted furiously.

She looked at him with indolent and filmy eyes, and he saw sparks of
silver dart to their surface. He held her in his arms. She was swooning
but vigilantly listening. Gently she disengaged herself, sighing, while
he, embarrassed, sat down at a little distance from her, clenching and
unclenching his hands.

They spoke of banal things: she boasting of her maid, who would go
through fire for her, he responding only by gestures of approbation and
surprise.

Then suddenly she passed her hands over her forehead. "Ah!" she said, "I
suffer cruelly when I think that he is there working. No, it would cost
me too much remorse. What I say is foolish, but if he were a different
ma