His sigh floated off and was lost in the soft voluptuous breeze which bore it away from him who unconsciously called it forth. At this moment Pierre was making his way through the shrubbery of the Villa Helmholtz gardens as he had done once before. He arrived at the door of the hothouse. A woman awaited him there, trembling with love and terror.--What caused the terror? Hot the fear of being surprised in this secret meeting. Ely's courage was superior to such weaknesses. No. She knew that Olivier had returned that day. She knew that he had passed the afternoon talking with Pierre. She knew that her name must have been pronounced between them. She was certain that Pierre would not betray their dear secret. But he was so young, so innocent, so transparent to the observer, while the other was so penetrating, so keen!--She was going to learn if their love had been suspected by Olivier, if this man had warned his friend against her in revenge.--When she heard Pierre's slow, furtive footsteps upon the pathway, her heart beat so strongly that she seemed to hear it echo through the deathly silence of the hothouse!--He is here. She takes his hand. She feels that the beloved fingers reply with their old confident pressure. She takes him in her arms. She seeks his mouth and their lips unite in a kiss in which she feels that he is all hers to the depths of his soul. That other has not spoken! And now tears begin to flow down the cheeks of the loving woman, warm tears that the lover dries with his burning kisses, as he asks:-- "What, are you weeping! What is it, my beloved?" "I love you," she replies, "and they are tears of joy." CHAPTER VIII FRIEND AND MISTRESS