Louis looked up for a moment, but he did not stir, and went on placidly holding the skein, though the hands that had held the ball were twisted together in their owner’s lap. The _guichetier_ referred to his paper. “Louis-Adrien Chantemerle, _ci-devant_ Vicomte de Saint-Ermay. You, there, is not that your cursed name?” “A portion of it,” responded Louis lazily. “Your information appears fragmentary. However, I do recognise myself.” He rose from the chair. “Mademoiselle, to our next meeting. I regret infinitely that the skein is not finished after all.” He slipped the wool off his hands and slid it gently into her lap, and then catching her shaking fingers, he kissed them with his most courtly air. “Good-bye, Monsieur le Chevalier. Good-bye, Des Essars.” “Good-bye, Vicomte,” said the old man, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry—I am very sorry.” And he added, in a voice not free from emotion: “Though our acquaintance has been so short, we shall greatly miss you.” Louis loosed Des Essars’ hand and bowed to him. “I wish no more flattering epitaph,” he said with his charming smile. “Adieu.” He followed the jailor out of the room, and the girl broke into hysterical sobbing. CHAPTER XIV CIRCE AND ULYSSES “And do you ask what game she plays? With me ’tis lost or won; With thee ’tis playing still; with him It is not well begun; But ’tis a game she plays with all Beneath the sway of the sun. “Thou seest the card that falls—she knows The card that followeth; Her game in thy tongue is called Life, As ebbs thy daily breath; When she shall speak, thou’lt learn her tongue, And know she calls it Death.” —D. G. ROSSETTI, _The Card-dealer_. No woman like Madame d’Espaze, with her notoriety, her lovers, her political intriguery, her secret power (how great, a matter for speculation), had ever crossed Gilbert’s path in life. He had time this morning, as he threaded the streets, to make some picture of her to himself. Two types of beauty presented themselves to his imagination; the one dark, voluptuous, imperious, a sort of empress of vice, the other of that fair and child-like mould which rules by cajolery. At the door of the Comtesse’s salon he was still speculating which class would claim her, for his success might depend upon it.