This done, D’Argenton decided that it was time to make a grand _coup_. He dressed with great care, took a fiacre, and presented himself at Charlotte’s door at an hour that he knew Jack must be away. D’Argenton was very pale, and the beating of his heart choked him. One of the greatest mysteries in human nature is that such persons have a heart, and that that heart is capable of beating. It was not love that moved him, but he saw a certain romance in the affair, the carriage stationed at the corner as for an elopement, and above all the hope of gratifying his hatred of Jack. He pictured to himself the disappointment of the youth on his return to find that the bird had flown. He meant to appear suddenly before Charlotte, to throw himself at her feet, and, giving her no time to think, to carry her away with him at once. She must be very much changed since he last saw her if she could resist him. He entered her room without knocking, saying in a low voice, “It is I.” There was no Charlotte; but instead, Jack stood before him. Jack, on account of the occurrence of his mother’s birthday, had a holiday, and was at work with his books. Ida was asleep on her bed in the alcove. The two men looked at each other in silence. This time the poet had not the advantage. In the first place, he was not at home; next, how could he treat as an inferior this tall, proud-looking fellow, in whose intelligent face appeared, as if still more to exasperate the lover, something of his mother’s beauty. “Why do you come here?” asked Jack. The other stammered and colored. “I was told that your mother was here.” “So she is; but I am with her, and you shall not see her.” This was said rapidly and in a low voice; then Jack took D’Argenton by the shoulder and wheeled him back into the corridor. The poet with some difficulty preserved his footing. “Jack,” he said, endeavoring to be dignified,—“there has been a misunderstanding for some time between us, but now that you are a man, all this should cease. I offer you my hand, my child.” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Of what use are these theatricals between us, sir? You detest me, and I return the compliment!” “And since when have we been such enemies, Jack?” “Ever since we knew each other! My earliest recollection is of absolute hatred toward you. Besides, why should we not hate each other like the bitterest of foes? By what other name should I call you? Who and what are you? Believe me that if ever in my life I have thought of you without anger, it has never been without a blush of shame.” “It is true, Jack, that our position toward each other has been entirely false. But, my dear friend, life is not a romance.” But Jack cut short this discourse.