"He looks like a man who wants to get married. Married! he's not capable of satisfying a woman. All the same, I like him. And besides, I should miss him for other reasons." This woman, with her commonplace life her commonplace brain, had an agreeable voice, a delicate face, intelligence in her eyes and a sort of natural elegance. Leonor felt a violent desire for her. "I am spending several days here," he said. "So am I." "Shouldn't we spend them together?" She gave a pretty laugh, allowed herself to be entreated, and accepted, after having once more examined Leonor with a sagacious eye. The proposition accepted, she offered him her lips, looked at the time on a minute watch and got up, saying: "Let's go and have dinner. We must hurry to get a little table." Her name was Gratienne. She was a little woman, with a mass of dark hair, and her profile was charming. Leonor was amused by the contrast between this little statuette and the opulent Leda type of Hortense. She had a supple body, fresh and delicately scented; and since she was a professional and ardently shared the pleasures she provoked, he passed several pleasant nights. The days were much less agreeable, for he had to submit to long prolix confidences. There were amusing touches in her stories, but from professional ethics she refrained from ever uttering a proper name, a fact which somewhat confused her anecdotes. One evening, however, in a moment of distraction or of confidence, she allowed Leonor to turn over her little collection of post-cards. "Besides," added, "as you're not Parisian, the names will tell you nothing." Leonor looked at ships, mountains, casinos, girls bathing and many other interesting pictures. Some were signed Theobald and came from Austria, others Paul, and came from the Pyrenees. "Hullo, Tourlaville castle!" Without appearing to do so, he examined the writing of the address with care. He did not know the hand. The card was signed H. He passed on. Another of the La Hague castles. This time the signature was Herv. "Surely it's Hervart." The name appeared in full at the bottom of Martinvast Castle, with a postscript of "love and kisses." "That must be the civil servant in the Fine Arts Department. Obviously." For a moment he felt annoyed at being the collaborator, even the casual collabor, of M. Hervart. He would have preferred someone he did not know. Theobald pleased him better. But all at once he thought of Rose: "It's curious," he said to himself, "that we should love the same women in all the different styles." While Gratienne was looking out of the window, he slipped the card of Martinvast castle into his pocket. CHAPTER XIII