With a stare she passed by her discomfited guardian and went out on Jean’s arm. In the promenade and on the steps of the big staircase she leant on his arm with all the weight of her languishing body. As he remained silent, waiting for her to speak, she asked him with a timidity which had come over her all unforeseen: “Am I no longer beautiful, Jean? Tell me.” “Look round you, Madame, and judge for yourself.” Certainly the pair provoked the glances of the well-dressed crowd which was streaming out of the auditorium into the big hall. And the eyes of the _demi-mondaines_ who passed Madame Landeau fastened on her dress as though to estimate its price and its cut and to guess how her beauty would look when stripped of it. She gave her escort a light tap across his fingers. “You, you, I mean. _You_ are the only person here who has any interest for me.” “What about the old gentleman in the box?” “He does my shopping for me!” Strengthened by the thought of Paule, he strove to elude his temptress, whose soft arm he felt--not without a flutter of the heart--hang so heavily on his. Her burning, eager face under its mantling blush wore a look of discouragement. “Do you remember, Jean, the wood at La Chênaie?” “Oh, yes,” he said, remembering that it was there that Marcel’s fate had been settled. “I should love to go back there with you. Did you like me better when I was a young girl? Be candid.” “You are more beautiful now and yet different. I always see your husband behind you.” She turned round. “Your jokes are in bad taste, Jean,” she murmured after having made sure of M. Landeau’s absence. “You are afraid of him,” she added. “Oh, no, I am not.” “You don’t like him?” “No.” “So that, before you would consent to--flirt, it would be necessary for him to please you?” He began to laugh. “Exactly,” he said. “That is very strange.” “You are his wife.” She laughed in her turn, and half hiding her face behind her fan she replied: “So little--and so badly.” “But quite enough.” She imitated the little plaintive voice of children caught in the act. “I won’t do it again.” He looked long at her. He noticed the quivering movement of her eyelids, the yearning of her whole body for him. Why should he resist any longer the appeal of pleasure when it came to him in such lovely guise? “Isabelle,” he whispered softly. She gazed at him in her turn and radiantly slipped her soft hand into his. “Jean, dear Jean,” she cried. For an instant they both had a foretaste of happiness. Then the bell rang to announce the next act. Full of their joy, they slowly returned to the hall of the theatre, without speaking. At the head of the marble staircase they stopped to take breath. Upon the balcony they stood alone above the gay crowd of spectators hurrying back, but they did not see them. “Do you know, Jean, you made me tremble. I thought it was true what they told me.” Vaguely uneasy and already tortured at heart, he repeated: “What they told you?”