'Very lucky, indeed!' said the writer with a forced laugh; but when he took leave of René at the gate, where his cab laden with luggage awaited him, he burst into sobs. 'It's that beast of a Colette!' he cried. 'You remember that day you saw her in my rooms? God! how sweet she looked! And do you remember what she said, as I thought, in a joke? I can't even repeat it. . . . Well, things have come to such a pass that life for me here is unbearable, and I must be off for a time. I had no money, so I was forced to go to a usurer who lent me some at sixty per cent. Terrible, isn't it? What with the usurer, my old aunt in the country, to whom I was bad enough to write, my publisher, and the editor of the "Revue parisienne"--who, by the way, has got me to sign a contract for copy--I have six thousand francs. As the train carries me along every turn of the wheel will seem to go over my heart, but at any rate I shall be getting away from her; and when she gets my letter, written from Milan, what a grand revenge it will be!' He rubbed his hands with joy, then, shaking his head, said, 'It has been like Heine's ballad of Count Olaf all along. You know how he talks of love to his betrothed while the headsman stands at the door--that headsman has always been at the door of Colette's chamber. But when he assumed the form of a Sappho I could bear it no longer. Good-bye, René, you will not see me back till I am cured.' Since then there had been no news from the unhappy fellow, of whom René generally thought when comparing the noble woman he idolised with the savage and dangerous actress. Claude's absence was the reason why René never put in an appearance now at the green-room of the Théâtre Français. Why should he expose himself to the rancour of Colette's tongue, which no doubt wagged loudly enough when on the subject of her fugitive lover? Thanks to this absence, too, all bonds between the poet and the world into which Larcher had introduced him were severed. Under the influence of his growing passion for Suzanne, the author of the 'Sigisbée' had ignored the most elementary rules of etiquette. Not only had he neglected to call upon the different women who had so graciously invited him, but he had not even paid Madame Komof his duty visit. The Comtesse, who was large-minded enough to understand the unconventional ways of genius, and kind enough to forgive such irregularity, said to herself, 'He was probably bored here,' and, though not angry with him, had not asked him again. She was busy, too, for the moment in bringing out a Russian pianist who pretended that he was in direct communication with the soul of Chopin. René, feeling safe in that quarter, had heard with regret that Madame Offarel was greatly offended that neither he nor Emilie had come to the famous dinner whose ingredients it had taken her a week to collect from all parts of Paris. Fresneau had gone all alone.