In a flash Thérèse was crimson to the hair, and he had her by the wrist, swinging her round to face him. "Oho!" she cried, laughing till the new ear-rings tinkled, "so that’s it—that’s the game? Well, if you can give that stuck-up aristocrat the setting-down I ’ve promised her ever since I first saw her, I ’m with you." Hébert pounced on one word, like a cat. "Aristocrat? Ah! I thought so," he said, his breathing quickening a little. "Who is she, then, ma mie?" Thérèse regarded him with a little scorn. She did not care who got Hébert, since she had done with him herself, but what, _par exemple_, did he see in a pale stick like that—and after having admired her, Thérèse? Certainly men were past understanding. She lolled easily on the arm of the chair. "I ’ve not an idea, but I dare say I could find out—that is, if Rosalie knows." "Well, when you do, there ’ll be a chain to match the ear-rings," said Hébert, his arm round her waist again. All the same, April had passed into May before Thérèse won her chain. It was in the time between that Hébert haunted Mlle de Rochambeau’s footsteps, and employed what he considered his most seductive arts, producing only a sensation of shuddering defilement from which neither prayer nor effort could free her thoughts. One day, goaded past endurance, she left Dangeau’s folded note at the door of Cléry’s lodging. When it had left her hand, she would have given the world to have it back. How could she speak to a man of this shameful pursuit of Hébert? How, having put Dangeau out of her life, could she use his help, and appeal to his friend? And yet, how endure the daily shame, the nightly agony of remembering those smooth, poisonous whispers, that pale, dreadful smile? She cried her eyes red and swollen, and Edmond Cléry, looking up from a bantering exchange of compliments with Rosalie, wondered as she came in, first if this could be she, and then at his friend’s taste. He permitted himself a complacent memory of Thérèse’s glowing cheeks and supple curves, and commended his own choice. Rosalie’s needles clicked amiably. She liked young men, and this was a personable one. What a goose this girl was, to be sure!—like a frightened rabbit with Hébert, and now with this amiable young man, shrinking, white-faced! Bah! she had no patience with her. Edmond bowed smilingly. "My homage, Citoyenne," he said. Aline forced a "Bonjour, Citizen," and then fell silent again. Ah! why had she left the note—why, why, why? Cléry began to pity her plight, for there was something chivalrous in him which rose at the sight of her obvious unhappiness, and he gave the impulse rein. "Will you not tell me how I can serve you?" he said in his gentlest voice. "It will be both a pleasure and an honour." Aline raised her tired eyes to his, and read kindness in the open glance. "You are very good," she said slowly, and looked past him with a hesitating air.