She staggered, and turned aside into the deserted drawing-room, where she dropped into an easy-chair. The lamps were shedding a reddish glare; and the wax candles in the chandelier, burnt to their sockets, threatened imminent destruction to the crystal sconces. From the dining-room were wafted the farewells of the departing guests. Hélène herself had lost all thoughts of going; she longed to linger where she was, plunged in thought. So it was no dream after all; Juliette would visit that man the day after to-morrow—she knew the day. Then the thought struck her that she ought to speak to Juliette and warn her against sin. But this kindly thought chilled her to the heart, and she drove it from her mind as though it were out of place, and deep in meditation gazed at the grate, where a smouldering log was crackling. The air was still heavy and oppressive with the perfumes from the ladies’ hair. “What! you are here!” exclaimed Juliette as she entered. “Well, you are kind not to run away all at once. At last we can breathe!” Hélène was surprised, and made a movement as though about to rise; but Juliette went on: “Wait, wait, you are in no hurry. Henri, get me my smelling-salts.” Three or four persons, intimate friends, had lingered behind the others. They sat before the dying fire and chatted with delightful freedom, while the vast room wearily sank into a doze. The doors were open, and they saw the smaller drawing-room empty, the dining-room deserted, the whole suite of rooms still lit up and plunged in unbroken silence. Henri displayed a tender gallantry towards his wife; he had run up to their bedroom for her smelling-salts, which she inhaled with closed eyes, whilst he asked her if she had not fatigued herself too much. Yes, she felt somewhat tired; but she was delighted—everything had gone off so well. Next she told them that on her reception nights she could not sleep, but tossed about till six o’clock in the morning. Henri’s face broke into a smile, and some quizzing followed. Hélène looked at them, and quivered amidst the benumbing drowsiness which little by little seemed to fall upon the whole house. However, only two guests now remained. Pierre had gone in search of a cab. Hélène remained the last. One o’clock struck. Henri, no longer standing on ceremony, rose on tiptoe and blew out two candles in the chandelier which were dangerously heating their crystal sconces. As the lights died out one by one, it seemed like a bedroom scene, the gloom of an alcove spreading over all. “I am keeping you up!” exclaimed Hélène, as she suddenly rose to her feet. “You must turn me out.” A flush of red dyed her face; her blood, racing through her veins, seemed to stifle her. They walked with her into the hall, but the air there was chilly, and the doctor was somewhat alarmed for his wife in her low dress. “Go back; you will do yourself harm. You are too warm.”