I could not help concentrating my whole attention on Pierre de Bonnivet and his wife. On the other hand, I feared that directly we left the dinner-table they would try to make me talk, and I did not wish to betray Molan either to her, or particularly to him. The easily distended veins of his full-blooded forehead, his greenish eyes so quick to display anger, and the coarse red hair, which grew right down his arms to his fingers, were all signs of brutality which gave me the impression that he was a redoubtable person. Tragic action would be as natural to him as grievous timidity to me or fatuous insolence to Jacques. The evening ought not to end without furnishing me with the proof that my diverse intuitions had not deceived me. We had just left the dinner-table for the smoking-room when Machault said to me as he took my arm— “You see a good deal of Jacques Molan, don’t you, La Croix?” “We were at college together, and I see him sometimes still,” I replied evasively. “Ah, well! If you see him in a day or two, warn him that Senneterre met him to-night when on his way here. Consequently they know his cold and headache are only an excuse. It is of no other importance, but with Anne it is always better to be well informed.” I had no time to question the brave swordsman, who had smiled an unaccountable smile as he uttered this enigmatic phrase, for just then Pierre de Bonnivet came towards us with a box of cigars in one hand and a box of cigarettes in the other. I took a Russian cigarette, while the robust gladiator put into his mouth a veritable tree trunk, wrinkled and black. Then before the coffee, espying upon the table a bottle of fine champagne, he filled a little glass, which he proceeded to enjoy, saying as he did so—- “This is an excellent appetizer with which to start the evening.” “Will you have, M. la Croix, a cup of coffee? No. A drop of Kummel or Chartreuse?” Bonnivet asked. “Not even a thimbleful of cherry brandy?” “No liqueur or coffee this evening,” I said, and I added with a smile: “I have not the stomach or the nerves of a Hercules.” “There is no need to be as strong as Machault to like alcohol. Take our friend Molan, for instance,” the husband said, watching me as he pronounced the name. Then after a short silence he said: “Do you know what is really the matter with him?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “Perhaps he has overworked himself. He works harder than he drinks.” “But he loves little Favier still more?” my questioner insisted, giving me another keen glance. “He loves little Favier more still,” I replied in the same indifferent tone. “Has this affair been going on for long?” the husband asked after a little hesitation. “As long as _La Duchesse Blue_ has been running. It is a honeymoon in its first quarter.” “But his indisposition this evening when she is not acting?” he asked me without entirely formulating his question, though I completed it in my reply, giving it a cynical form which relieved my discomfort.