Seraphitus unfastened his pelisse lined with sable, threw it over him, and fell asleep. The old servant stood for several minutes gazing with loving eyes at the singular being before him, whose sex it would have been difficult for any one at that moment to determine. Wrapped as he was in a formless garment, which resembled equally a woman’s robe and a man’s mantle, it was impossible not to fancy that the slender feet which hung at the side of the couch were those of a woman, and equally impossible not to note how the forehead and the outlines of the head gave evidence of power brought to its highest pitch. “She suffers, and she will not tell me,” thought the old man. “She is dying, like a flower wilted by the burning sun.” And the old man wept. CHAPTER II. SERAPHITA Later in the evening David re-entered the salon. “I know who it is you have come to announce,” said Seraphita in a sleepy voice. “Wilfrid may enter.” Hearing these words a man suddenly presented himself, crossed the room and sat down beside her. “My dear Seraphita, are you ill?” he said. “You look paler than usual.” She turned slowly towards him, tossing back her hair like a pretty woman whose aching head leaves her no strength even for complaint. “I was foolish enough to cross the fiord with Minna,” she said. “We ascended the Falberg.” “Do you mean to kill yourself?” he said with a lover’s terror. “No, my good Wilfrid; I took the greatest care of your Minna.” Wilfrid struck his hand violently on a table, rose hastily, and made several steps towards the door with an exclamation full of pain; then he returned and seemed about to remonstrate. “Why this disturbance if you think me ill?” she said. “Forgive me, have mercy!” he cried, kneeling beside her. “Speak to me harshly if you will; exact all that the cruel fancies of a woman lead you to imagine I least can bear; but oh, my beloved, do not doubt my love. You take Minna like an axe to hew me down. Have mercy!” “Why do you say these things, my friend, when you know that they are useless?” she replied, with a look which grew in the end so soft that Wilfrid ceased to behold her eyes, but saw in their place a fluid light, the shimmer of which was like the last vibrations of an Italian song. “Ah! no man dies of anguish!” he murmured. “You are suffering?” she said in a voice whose intonations produced upon his heart the same effect as that of her look. “Would I could help you!” “Love me as I love you.” “Poor Minna!” she replied. “Why am I unarmed!” exclaimed Wilfrid, violently. “You are out of temper,” said Seraphita, smiling. “Come, have I not spoken to you like those Parisian women whose loves you tell of?” Wilfrid sat down, crossed his arms, and looked gloomily at Seraphita. “I forgive you,” he said; “for you know not what you do.” “You mistake,” she replied; “every woman from the days of Eve does good and evil knowingly.” “I believe it,” he said.