She had lifted to him now that half-pensive, half-blind staring which he uneasily recognized. Florian had always under this woman’s gaze the illogical feeling that, where he was, Marie-Claire saw some one else, or, to be exact, saw some one a slight distance behind him. Her eyes could not be black. Florian knew that nobody’s eyes were really black. But this woman’s small eyes were very dark, they had such extraordinarily thick lashes upon both upper and lower lids, that these little eyes most certainly seemed blobs of infernal ink. There was in his sister’s eyes a discomfortable knowingness. Puysange looked at Puysange. He answered, quietly, “Yes, Mademoiselle de Nérac is now about to make me the happiest of men.” “Unhappy child! for she too is flesh and blood.” “And what does that anatomical truism signify when it is so cryptically uttered, Marie-Claire?” “It means that you and I are not enamored of flesh and blood.” Florian did not reply to this in words. But he smiled at his half-sister, for he was really fond of her, even now, and they understood each other excellently. So he stayed silent, still looking at her. By and by he said: “You come out of a wood that is not often visited by abbots and cherubim, and you carry a sieve and shears. Who is yonder?” Marie-Claire replied, “How should I know the real name of the adversary of all the gods of men?” “Pardieu!” said Florian, “so it is company of such sinister grandeur that you entertain nowadays. You progress, my sister, toward a truly notable damnation.” “In these parts, to be sure, they call him Janicot—” “Yes, I know,” said Florian, “and, certainly, his local name does not matter in the least.” Florian smiled benevolently, and said, “Good luck to you, my dear!” Then he rode on, into the pathway from which Marie-Claire had just emerged. He was interested, for it might well be rather amusing to overtake this whispered-about Janicot in the midst of his sombre work: but, even so, the thoughts of Florian were not wholly given over to Janicot, or to Marie-Claire either. Instead, he was still thinking of the sleeping woman’s face which he had not ever forgotten utterly: and this dark sullen sister of his—who had once been so pretty too, he recollected,—and all her injudicious traffic seemed, somehow, rather futile.