stound the policemen on duty in the
ball-rooms.

"Bravo!" said M. de Tregars, forcing himself to smile,--"bravo!"

He saw clearly now what sort of woman was Mme. Zelie Cadelle; how
he should speak to her, and what cords he might yet cause to vibrate
within her. He recognized the true daughter of Paris, wayward and
nervous, who in the midst of her disorders preserves an instinctive
pride; who places her independence far above all the money in the
world; who gives, rather than sells, herself; who knows no law but
her caprice, no morality but the policeman, no religion but pleasure.

As soon as she had returned to her seat,

"There you are dancing gayly," he said, "and poor Vincent is
doubtless groaning at this moment over his separation from you."

"Ah! I'd pity him if I had time," she said.

"He was fond of you?"

"Don't speak of it."

"If he had not been fond of you, he would not have put you here."

Mme. Zelie made a little face of equivocal meaning.

"What proof is that?" she murmured.

"He would not have spent so much money for you."

"For me!" she interrupted,--"for me! What have I cost him of any
consequence? Is it for me that he bought, furnished, and fitted
out this house? No, no! He had the cage; and he put in the bird,
--the first he happened to find. He brought me here as he might
have brought any other woman, young or old, pretty or ugly, blonde
or brunette. As to what I spent here, it was a mere bagatelle
compared with what the other did,--the one before me. Amanda kept
telling me all the time I was a fool. You may believe me, then,
when I tell you that M. Vincent will not wet many handkerchiefs
with the tears he'll shed over me."

"But do you know what became of the one before you, as you call her,
--whether she is alive or dead, and owing to what circumstances the
cage became empty?"

But, instead of answering, Mme. Zelie was fixing upon Marius de
Tregars a suspicious glance. And, after a moment only,

"Why do you ask me that?" she said.

"I would like to know."

She did not permit him to proceed. Rising from her seat, and
stepping briskly up to him,

"Do you belong to the police, by chance?" she asked in a tone of
mistrust.

If she was anxious, it was evidently because she had motives of
anxiety which she had concealed. If, two or three times she had
interrupted herself, it was because, manifestly, she had a secret
to keep. If the idea of police had come into her min