This implacable coquette had amused herself by destroying little Favier’s happiness with the joy those beings who cannot feel experience in torturing the sentiments of others! She had seen clearly into Molan’s heart. She had manœuvred so as to bury the knife in the vulnerable part and at the desired moment. She turned him out, after that had been done, with the only pleasure she could feel—that of causing suffering. He, the theorist of all Parisian depravities, had allowed himself to be cornered at this little execution without any suspicion. Now he was foaming at the mouth with impotent rage against the mistress who had played with him as long as this sport had suited her despotism, her ennui, and her moral depravity. But she had not left in his hands a line of her writing, a portrait—nothing in fact which could bear witness to their liaison. No. Molan was no match for her, and had I not been influenced by other motives I should have refused to undertake the commission he desired. The only service to render him was to take him away from any intercourse with this terrible woman. Besides, again making use of the unfortunate actress in this affair would have appeared to me the misery of miseries, and I told him so. “Be satisfied,” I said, “with this revenge, for when you speak of the other you forget what your relations with Camille are.” “How?” he said, and he made use of the most astounding expression his egoism had ever uttered in my presence: “Since I forgive her that night with Tournade!” “But,” I replied, “perhaps she does not forgive you.” “Now,” he said, “you have only to go and ask her to give me a ten minutes’ interview here. You will see if she will refuse. Do it for me and for her!” “No, no,” I gave as my final reply with the brutality of real indignation, which made him shrug his shoulders and pick up his hat as he said— “Very well, I will go and find her myself.” “Where?” I asked. “Where she is,” he answered. “At Tournade’s house?” “Yes. After all an encounter with that funny fellow would rest my nerves. Then the Bonnivet woman will hear of it, and it will be another proof that I still love Camille. But I shall find a letter from her at home waiting, asking me to see her. It is surprising that she has not reappeared this morning.”