“Yes, that you were in love with Paule Guibert.” He let fall the arm that was leaning on his and asked in a changed voice: “Who told you that?” Pale and speechless she uttered an inarticulate sound, as if she saw the ruined fragments of her happiness lying at her feet. She was beaten by the magic of a single name and that name, in a mad aberration, she must needs have uttered herself! It was enough to see Jean’s face to understand the extent of her defeat, and in a rage at the shattering of her dream she made her error worse. “That haughty little creature knew how to fascinate you, with her airs of a foreign princess. I had my doubts about her. She has been arranging this affair for a long time, I wager. She is mad, like all old maids in search of a husband. Go to her. She will know how to manage you!” Restored as he was to his right mind by his temptress herself, Jean looked at her sadly because of her grace, mercifully because of her passionate heart. And it was in a gentle voice that he answered her insults. “Isabelle, forgive me. It lay with you in those old days to share my life. And you saw this evening how weak I was and how powerful you were. It is not worthy of you to speak as you did. In the name of our dead love, Isabelle, be generous.” With all the thoughtfulness of lovers, he asked for a woman’s sympathy while telling her he loved her no longer. But she protested no further. The heaving of her bosom revealed her inward distress, she accepted defeat and abandoned herself to it. Her failure had found her unprepared. Too long she had anticipated the joy of victory. Her girlish flirtation had changed into a deep, sensual passion, more prone to the extremes of hope and despair than skilled in the subtleties of sentimental diplomacy. They were alone on the balcony. The crowd had passed into the theatre, where Iphigenia, the priestess, veiled in red draperies, was making ready to perform the blood-sacrifice. Isabelle looked down on the foyer, whose size seemed immeasurably enlarged by its emptiness. She put her two hands to her throat as if she were choking and at last lifted her eyes towards Jean, who was looking sadly at the distress on her lovely face. She was suffering so intensely that no base or wicked thoughts stirred him any longer. “Jean,” she sighed in a faint, hardly audible voice, “you are right. No woman is more worthy of your love. You will be happy, and I shall be most unhappy.” She could say no more, but bending down took the young man’s hand and pressed it to her lips. He felt a tear upon it, and as she drew herself up he saw that her face was streaming. But she had already partially recovered herself and she smiled faintly. “Are those pearls, Jean?” “Your tears are a thousand times more precious.”