“Fear and hate, madame,” replied he. “I hate this man; he is insupportable to me. I will give up coming to Maisons if I always must meet him here. Has he paid you his adieux for the last time?” “Not yet; a little patience--we shall not count the minutes. Besides, what harm can this man do you? The lion has lost his claws--what do I say?--he has carried his good-nature to the point of muzzling himself. It is not generous to pursue with hate a disarmed enemy.” “Very well, madame, if he is not gone in three days, I return to my first idea; it was the best.” “You will cut his throat?” “With all my heart.” “For the love of art?” “I am not a very bloodthirsty individual, but I would take a singular delight in slashing at the skin of this gloomy personage.” Mme. de Lorcy shrugged her shoulders. “What makes you think him gloomy, my dear? You are perfectly reasonable. You ought to adore M. Larinski; you are under the greatest obligations to him. He has been the first to succeed in touching the heart of our dear, hitherto insensible girl; he has broken the charm. She was the Sleeping Beauty; he has awakened her, and, through the favour of Heaven, he cannot marry her. I can see her in Churwalden, a prey to the gloomiest ennui, weeping over her illusions, furious at having been deceived. Do you not divine all the advantage that can be derived from a woman’s anger?” “You know that I love her, and yet I do not wish to owe anything to her spite.” “You are a child: be guided. The moment is come for you to propose. In a few days you will start for Churwalden, and you will say to this angry woman, ‘I have lied--I love you.’ In short, you will talk to her of your amorous flame; and you may, freely, under these circumstances, exhaust all your treasure-store of hyperbole. She will listen to you, I can promise you, and she will say to herself, ‘I seek vengeance--here it is.’” “I would like to believe you, madame,” he replied, “but are you very certain that Mlle. Moriaz is still at Churwalden?” And, pointing with his finger, he showed her at the end of the avenue a figure coming towards them clad in a pretty nut-brown dress with a long train sweeping the gravel. “Truly, I believe that it is she,” cried Mme. de Lorcy. “M. Moriaz is the most unskilful person; but, after all, not much harm is done.” Mlle. Moriaz had arrived the evening previous at Cormeilles. After resting somewhat from the fatigues of the journey, she had nothing more urgent to do than to order the horses put to her coupe and to come and pay her respects to her godmother, who could not fail to be touched by this attention.