The Baron accepted this flattery with a smile. Had his suspicions been aroused, that phrase alone would have lulled them. The most cunning men have that weak point by which they can always be conquered--vanity. But suspicion of any kind had been far from the Baron's mind. Suzanne deceived him as easily as René had deceived his sister. Those who see us every day are the last to perceive what would be evident to the merest stranger. That is because the stranger comes to us without any preconceived idea, whilst our daily associates have formed an opinion about us which they do not take the trouble to verify or change. The Baron therefore did not remark that Suzanne was that afternoon a prey to intense agitation, which lasted during the whole of his visit. He stayed rather longer than usual, too, telling her all sorts of club stories, while she pottered about in the room, under some pretence or other, with one eye on her letter, seizing it once more with delight as soon as Desforges had at last decided to go. 'He is an excellent fellow,' she said, 'but such a bore!' A fortnight's passion had sufficed to bring her to this stage of ingratitude, and she now found compensation for the restraint of the past hour in going over each phrase and word of the poet's mad letter. This time it was an ardent prayer--an appeal to a woman's love. He no longer spoke of friendship. The air of melancholy she had assumed in the brougham had told. 'Since you love me,' he said, 'have pity on yourself, if you have no pity on me.' What would have appeared to Suzanne an intolerable piece of conceit in anyone else touched her deeply as a mark of absolute confidence in her love. She recognised it for what it really was--worship so devout that it did not harbour a shadow of doubt. It would have been so natural if René had accused her of having cruelly trifled with his feelings, but such an hypothesis was far from the poet's thoughts. 'Poor boy!' she said to herself, 'how he loves me!' Then, thinking of Desforges by way of comparison, she added, 'It is the best way to make sure of not being deceived!' She took the letter out once more. Its language was so touching, and it was full of such sincere grief; then, again, the cosy _salon_, just at that hour, reminded her so forcibly of the poet and of his first visit, and she asked herself whether she had not put him sufficiently to the proof. 'No,' she concluded, 'not yet.'