Dark with all the passions, scowling malignant, a face glares from a shrouded corner of the room upon that white-robed form. Passionate love, passionate hate, passionate jealousy--who shall say what is in that face? Enough surely to bind _le petit_ with the spell of a nameless terror. The figure moves forward noiselessly out of the shadow. Ah! One knows him now! This is he whom most she dreads; he who, not husband, nor lover accepted, pursues her with vows, with threats, with all that there is of jealous passion; to whom, despite of fear, repulsion, dread, some mysterious tie binds her. _Le petit_ gazes--so he is there, that ogre, ah! And certainly he knows, that monster, of the expected visitor--he has read it in the passion of her eyes, upon her dumb but parted lips. It is destiny--so much the better; once for all we will end all this. The figure creeps forward, with raised hand clenched. _Le petit_ steps in from the balcony. ‘’Léna,’ he says, and with his finger points. She rises at the sound of his voice, and turning sees; then with a little cry of terror she comes to his arms for protection. That was like her. Afterwards, when _le petit_ wanted those white arms that hung around his neck--wanted them sorely in his sick estate, nigh unto death,--did she bring them then? Bah! All women are alike! and yet not all--not all. Is that a devil that rages before one, foaming at the mouth?--Ah! no, only Juan Costello, a very evil-looking person! ‘My compliments to you, Monsieur, but this lady and myself wish to talk _affaires_; will Monsieur have the kindness to withdraw?’ Truly he is _canaille_, with his villainous tongue and his villainous eyes--also he makes a great noise, until they come and take him away; altogether it is a very stupid and common affair, pah!--Well, well, it is a long time ago, and a little noise more or less doesn’t matter to me now. Also _le petit_ goes forth; and there is rage--a bitter, black rage--in his heart. How slowly wing the hours away till the morning light--those hours of disappointment and burning hate. That dog! One will kill him with the first light.--The little bay near Cabbé Roquebrune--that little bay that recalls so greatly the far-away lagoons of the blessed South Seas. Too good a resting-place for such a hound--far too good--yet it will serve. Up and down, up and down, never still through the long night hours, head awhirl, eyes aflame. Bad training, my child, for the morning’s meeting. Who cares? It is fate--his death at my hands is written in those stars that shine so steadily, so inexorably, above, in that dome of destiny. Ah! There it is at last, that streak of light--omen of wrath and blood, dull, and red, and angry streak. ‘_Tant mieux!_’ Certainly there will be sport. At last the little bay--and at the water’s edge the little tideless waves are whispering joyfully, and they are as glad as _le petit_, for this is a scene they love.