If the disposition of De Brévannes be borne in mind,--if his unmoveable obstinacy, his pride, his headstrong passion to succeed in whatever he undertook, be not forgotten,--if his will, his obstinacy, his vanity called into play by a deep and enthusiastic love, against which he had struggled for two years, be remembered, we may conceive with what passionate desire he sought to be beloved by Madame de Hansfeld, a woman so attractive, so envied, so respected. It was noon. M. de Brévannes was awaiting Iris with great impatience. Madame Grassot, the guardian of this mysterious dwelling, remained in the upper story. Iris arrived, and De Brévannes ran to meet her. She affected to be trembling and alarmed, and M. de Brévannes reassured, and led her to the room; she holding in her hand a small album bound in black morocco, and closed with a silver lock. Trembling with delight and impatience at the sight of this book, De Brévannes took from the mantel-piece a ring, with a fine-sized brilliant, which he placed on the finger of Iris in spite of her assumed resistance. "I pray you, my charming Iris," he said, "accept so trifling a token of my gratitude. This pretty hand has no need of ornament, but it is a souvenir which I entreat you to wear, and you promised you would accept it." "Yes, I did; but I do not know if I ought--a diamond?" "What is a diamond? It is the ring I speak of." "And it is the ring, then, that I accept," replied Iris, with a smile of deep hypocrisy, "since my condition exposes me to certain remunerations." "If I chose a diamond," said De Brévannes, "it is because I would present you with an emblem of the endurance and purity of my gratitude." And he put forth his hand to take the black book. "No, no!" exclaimed Iris, appearing still to struggle with duty; "it is so horrible, I condemn myself for you." "What harm is done? it is but an indiscretion at worst, my dear Iris; and, as your mistress is so often unjust towards you, it is, on your part, but a small, allowable, even innocent vengeance." "Oh! I know I am inexcusable; and when you have once read the book, you will forget poor Iris, when you have no further occasion for her. But why should I complain, have you not paid me for my treachery?" she added, with bitterness. "This little creature is desperately smitten with me," thought De Brévannes, "and how the devil shall I get rid of her? Can she mean, now she has got the ring, not to let me see the book?" Then he said aloud, with earnestness,-- "You are mistaken, Iris. In the first place, I shall never think I have repaid my obligation to you: have no fear that I shall ever forget you. I wish, for my own peace of mind, that I could; and it requires all the seriousness of the things on which I have to discourse with your mistress in order to make me for a moment forget my love for you, Iris; for I do love you. But we will not refer to that now. There are serious interests at stake. How is your mistress?"