"Is he----" but she suddenly checked herself with odd abruptness, and then quickly asked, with a shallow pretence of eager interest, "Is America far from Paris?" And so she continued to quiz me rather vacantly concerning a great country of whose whereabouts she had not the slightest idea. Then she was silent, and I imagined that she was gathering herself for some supreme effort. Suddenly she turned her marvellous eyes full toward me, swept the wild hair from her face, looked almost fiercely at me a moment, and, rigid from head to foot, asked, half angrily, and then held her breath for the answer,--"Is he married?" The question was asked so suddenly and so strangely, and with so commanding a manner, that I had not a moment to consider the wisdom of lying. "No," I answered. She sank back into her chair with a deep breath, all softness and grace again, and her wild hair fell back over her face. She had lost all interest in the ball. While her companions were enjoying themselves in the dance, she sat motionless and silent beside me, watching Bishop. An uncomfortable feeling had taken possession of me. Presently I abruptly asked her why she did not dance. She started. "Dance?" she replied. She looked over the hall, and an expression of scorn and disgust came into her face. "Not with that espèce de voyous," she vehemently added; and then she turned to watch Bishop again. I now noticed for the first time that a group of the human vampires, standing apart at a little distance, were watching us closely and talking in low tones among themselves. My attention had been drawn to them by a defiant look that the girl had shot at them. One of them was particularly repulsive. He was rather larger and stronger than the others. His garb was that of his species,--tight trousers, a négligé shirt, and a rakish cap being its distinguishing articles. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his head thrust forward. He had the low, brutal face of his kind. It was now pale with rage. I asked the girl what her name was. "Hélène," she answered, simply. Her other name? Oh, just Hélène. Sometimes it was Hélène Crespin, for Crespin was her lover's name. All this with perfect frankness. "Where is he?" I asked. "_C'est lui avec la casquette_," she answered, indicating the brute whom I have just described, but I had expected that. "I hate him now!" she vehemently added. No, she had neither father nor mother; had no recollection of parents. Sometimes she worked in a printing shop in the Rue Victor Massé when extra hands were needed.