The perfect ease with which she uttered this phrase, the smile that accompanied it, the painful necessity of shaking hands with this husband whom he regarded as an accessory to his wife's guilt, and of bowing to Baron Desforges as well as to the other persons present in the box--all these details were so strangely out of keeping with the fever consuming the poet that for a few moments he was quite taken aback. Such is life in the world of fashion. Tragedies are played in silence, and amidst an interchange of false compliments, an assumption of meaningless manners, and an empty show of pleasure. Moraines had offered René a seat behind Suzanne, and she sat talking to him about his musical tastes with as much apparent indifference as if this visit were not of terrible significance for her. Desforges and Moraines were talking with the other lady, and René could hear them making remarks concerning the composition of the audience. He was not accustomed to impose upon himself that self-control which permits women of fashion to talk of dress or music whilst their hearts are being torn with anxiety. He stammered forth replies to Suzanne's words without the least idea of what he was saying. As she bent slightly forward he inhaled the heliotrope perfume she generally used. It awakened tender memories within him, and at last he dared to look at her. He saw her mobile lips, her fair, rose-like complexion, her blue eyes, her golden hair, her snow-white neck and shoulders over which his lips had often strayed. In his eyes there was a kind of savage delirium that almost frightened Madame Moraines. His bare coming had told her that something extraordinary was taking place, but she was under the watchful eye of Desforges, and she could not afford to make a single mistake. On the other hand, the least imprudence on René's part might ruin her. Her whole life depended upon a word or gesture of the young poet, and she knew how easily such word or gesture might escape him. She took up her fan and the lace handkerchief she had laid on the ledge of the box, and rose. 'It is too warm here,' she said, passing her hand over her eyes and addressing René, who had risen at the same time. Will you come into the ante-room? It will be cooler there.' As soon as they were both seated on the sofa she said aloud, 'Is it long since you last saw our friend Madame Komof?' Then, in an undertone, 'What is the matter, love? What does this mean?' 'It means,' replied René, in a suppressed voice, 'that I know all, and that I am come to tell you what I think of you. You need not trouble to answer. I know all, I tell you--I know at what time you went into the house in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, at what time you left it, and whom you met there. Don't lie; I was there--I saw you. This is the last time I shall ever speak to you, but you understand--you are a wretch, a miserable wretch!'