He had called on Madame Komof without any distinct aim, but in the secret hope of hearing Suzanne spoken of by those of her own set. They at least would be sure to know her! But alas! his conversation with Moraines had sufficed to involve him in more horrible doubt than ever. One thing was now very plain to him; Suzanne had used her husband as a bugbear to keep him, René, from visiting their house. Why--if it were not that she had something in her life to hide? What was this something? Colette had taken upon herself to answer this question in advance. Under the influence of that horrible suspicion, René had conceived a plan, very simple of execution, and the result of which he thought would prove decisive. He would take advantage of the husband's invitation to ask Suzanne for permission to visit her at home. If she said yes, she had nothing to hide; if she said no---- And as this resolution recurred to the poet he continued to gaze upon that adorable face resting on his shoulder. Each one of those dear features recalled fresh memories! Those eyes so clear and blue--what faith he had had in them! That noble brow--what refined thoughts he had imagined it to shelter! Those delicate, mobile lips--with what sweet abandonment had he heard them speak! No--what Colette had told him was impossible! But why these lies--a first, a second, and a third time? Yes, she had lied three times. There is no such thing as a trivial lie. René understood this now, and felt that confidence, like love, is governed by the great law of all or nothing. We have it or we have it not. Those who have lost it know this only too well. 'My poor René!' repeated Suzanne. She saw that he was in that state when compassion softens the heart and opens it wide. 'Poor indeed!' replied the poet, moved by this mark of pity, that came just when he had most need of it; then, looking into her eyes, he unburdened himself. 'Listen, Suzanne, I prefer to tell you all. I have come to the conclusion that the life we are leading now cannot last. It makes me too unhappy--it does not satisfy my love. To see you only by stealth, an hour to-day and an hour in a few days' time, to know nothing of what you are doing, to share no part of your life, is too cruel. Be quiet--let me speak. There was a weighty objection to my being received in your house--your husband. Well--I have seen him. I have borne the ordeal. We have shaken hands. Since it is done, allow me at least to benefit by my effort. I know there is nothing very noble in what I am saying, but I have no desire to be noble--I love you. I feel that my mind is getting full of all kinds of ideas about you. I entreat you to let me come to your house, to live in your world, to see you elsewhere than here, where we meet only to--'