On his return to Paris Malignon had vowed that he would be more skilful in his attack. He had just reacquired influence over her, during a fit of boredom which had come on with the close of a wearying winter, when the usual dissipations, dinners, balls, and first-night performances were beginning to pall on her with their dreary monotony. And at last, her curiosity aroused, allured by the seeming mystery and piquancy of an intrigue, she had responded to his entreaties by consenting to meet him. However, so wholly unruffled were her feelings, that she was as little disturbed, seated here by the side of Malignon, as when she paid visits to artists’ studios to solicit pictures for her charity bazaars. “Juliette! Juliette!” murmured the young man, striving to speak in caressing tones. “Come, be sensible,” she merely replied; and taking a Chinese fan from the chimney-piece, she resumed—as much at her ease as though she had been sitting in her own drawing-room: “You know we had a rehearsal this morning. I’m afraid I have not made a very happy choice in Madame Berthier. Her ‘Mathilda’ is a snivelling, insufferable affair. You remember that delightful soliloquy when she addresses the purse—‘Poor little thing, I kissed you a moment ago’? Well! she declaims it like a school-girl who has learnt a complimentary greeting. It’s so vexatious!” “And what about Madame de Guiraud?” he asked, as he drew his chair closer and took her hand. “Oh! she is perfection. I’ve discovered in her a ‘Madame de Lery,’ with some sarcasm and animation.” While speaking she surrendered her hand to the young man, and he kissed it between her sentences without her seeming to notice it. “But the worst of it all, you know,” she resumed, “is your absence. In the first place, you might say something to Madame Berthier; and besides, we shall not be able to get a good _ensemble_ if you never come.” He had now succeeded in passing his arm round her waist. “But as I know my part,” he murmured. “Yes, that’s all very well; but there’s the arrangement of the scenes to look after. It is anything but obliging on your part to refuse to give us three or four mornings.” She was unable to continue, for he was raining a shower of kisses on her neck. At this she could feign ignorance no longer, but pushed him away, tapping him the while with the Chinese fan which she still retained in her hand. Doubtless, she had registered a vow that she would not allow any further familiarity. Her face was now flushed by the heat reflected from the fire, and her lips pouted with the very expression of an inquisitive person whom her feelings astonish. Moreover, she was really getting frightened. “Leave me alone,” she stammered, with a constrained smile. “I shall get angry.” But he imagined that he had moved her, and once more took hold of her hands. To her, however, a voice seemed to be crying out, “No!” It was she herself protesting before she had even answered her own heart.