I was prepared, on arriving that evening, to encounter much coolness in this woman, who was depraved by coldness a coquette through egoism, and curious even as regards vice through idleness. I had not even thought the audacity of such a phrase addressed by her to me who knew everything possible. In spite of my firm intention not to allow my impressions to appear, she read my astonishment in my face. Her half-closed eyes darted at me the most incisive look which has ever fathomed the soul of a man to its depths. Without doubt, regarding her liaison with Molan, she thought I had only one of those hypotheses, which I was unable to verify, one of those hypotheses which grow around those so-called mysteries, Parisian love affairs, and that I could not very well conceal my deductions. The acuteness of her eyes became dulled into indulgent irony, and I left her to obey the order she had given me, but in part only. She had obviously calculated, with her habit of relying upon the evil sentiments of her intimates, that I should be only too happy to convey her message to Jacques in Camille’s presence, to make their quarrel all the worse and put my friend in a somewhat false position. She was to find out that a good fellow of a painter did not lend himself to this pleasantry. I approached the two lovers as if the beautiful enemy of the pretty actress had not entrusted me with any commission. They were only exchanging, according to agreement, the most indispensable polite phrases in a loud voice— “Have you come to this corner of Bohemia, then?” Molan said, my presence restoring his natural assurance to him; “it is quite natural that you should.” “Do not boast,” I replied in a tone of banter with a foundation of truth to it similar to the one he affected. “It is a long time since you passed as a man of the world.” “Big words!” he said still gaily. “I am off. Don’t talk too much ill of your friend Jacques, and do not monopolize her too much,” he added, turning to me; “she must do a little flirting to be a success with the men.” He went away with the renewed desire, of which he had spoken to me, shining in his eyes. Camille had bowed as he went without speaking, but with a smile in which I, who knew her so well, could read so much suffering and disgust. She fanned herself nervously, while I looked at her with an emotion which I did not endeavour to conceal. We were in our out-of-the-way corner like two outcasts, though our sorrowful _tête-à-tête_ was very brief! Senneterre was already on his way towards us from the other end of the hall with a young man who had asked to be introduced to Camille. Those two minutes sufficed for us to exchange a few phrases which redoubled my impression of danger. It had continually increased ever since I had entered the house. “So you are come,” the actress said, “thank you;” and in a supplicating tone she added: “Do not leave me this evening, if you love me a little.” “Don’t you feel well?” I asked.