She looked at him as if his words surprised her. In her eyes was that look of rapt and involuntary astonishment worn by a woman when she suddenly discovers in a man a shade of sentimentalism which she believed to be restricted to her own sex. 'I think we shall soon become friends,' she said, 'for there is much in our hearts that is similar. Are you like me? I believe in sympathy and antipathy by sheer instinct, and I think I can also feel when people don't like me. Now--perhaps I am wrong in telling you this, but I speak to you in confidence, as if I had known you a long time--there is your friend Monsieur Larcher; I am sure that he doesn't like me.' She was really agitated as she said this, for she was now about to learn for certain, not whether Claude had been speaking ill of her--she knew he had not by René's face--but whether the poet could hold his tongue. She was well aware that in a love affair the dangerous time for imprudent confidences lies at the beginning and the end. Your only sure men are those who can keep their peace when their hearts are overflowing with hope or bitterness. By René's reply she would be able to judge an important trait in his character, and one that was a principal factor in the plan that she had madly and rapidly evolved. It was only natural that he should have confided his passion to Claude on the very day of its birth--and he would have done so, too, had it not been for Colette's presence. This detail was, of course, unknown to Suzanne, and René's silence was a promise of prudence that set her heart beating. 'We have never mentioned your name,' said the poet; 'but, as you remarked only too justly the other evening, he has always been particularly unfortunate in his love affairs, and he cannot shake his troubles off. If you could but see how he carries on with the woman he is miserably in love with at the present moment!' 'That is no reason,' said Suzanne, 'why he should revenge himself by forcing his attentions upon any woman chance throws in his way. I got quite angry one day when he was seated next to me at table. I heard, too, that he had been speaking ill of me, but I have forgiven him.' 'And now Claude may say what he likes,' she thought when René had gone after promising to come again in three days' time and to bring his collection of unpublished poems. Then she looked at herself in the glass with unfeigned satisfaction. The interview had been a success; she had made the poet understand that she could not receive him in the ordinary way; she had put him on his guard against his best friend, and she had completed her capture of his heart. 'He is mine,' she cried, and this time her joy was sincere and deep. CHAPTER X IN THE TOILS