Then, for a minute they remained there face to face, not knowing what to say to each other. Renée's teeth chattered with terror, and it seemed to her as if some one were throwing bucketsful of iced water over her bare feet. Maxime experienced more irritation than he would have believed; but he still remained sufficiently possessed to reflect, and say to himself that the occasion was a good one, and that he would now break off the connection. "You won't make me believe that Céleste wears a coat," he continued. "If the glass panes of the conservatory were not so thick I should perhaps recognize the gentleman." She pushed him deeper into the shadow of the foliage, saying, with her hands clasped, and seized with growing terror: "I beg of you, Maxime--" But all the young fellow's teasing faculties were aroused, a ferocious malice which sought for vengeance. He was too weak to ease himself by anger. Spite compressed his lips; and, instead of striking her, as he had at first had the impulse of doing, he sharpened his voice and rejoined: "You ought to have told me of it, I shouldn't have come to disturb you--It happens every day that one no longer cares for one another. I myself was beginning to have enough of it--Come, don't be impatient. I will let you go up again; but not before you have told me the gentleman's name--" "Never, never!" murmured the young woman, forcing back her tears. "It isn't to call him out, it's to know--The name, tell me the name, quick, and off I go." He had caught hold of her wrists and he looked at her, laughing his wicked laugh. She struggled, distracted, bent upon not opening her lips again, so that the name he asked for might not escape from them. "We shall make a noise, you will be nicely placed then. Why are you frightened? Aren't we good friends? I want to know who replaces me, it's legitimate--Come, I will help you--It's Monsieur de Mussy whose grief has touched you." She did not answer. She bowed her head beneath such an interrogatory. "It isn't Monsieur de Mussy? The Duke de Rozan, then? Really, nor he either? Perhaps the Count de Chibray? Not even he?" He stopped short, he reflected. "The devil, I can't think of any one else. It can't be my father after what you told me--" Renée quivered as if she had been burnt, and said huskily: "No. You know very well that he no longer comes. I shouldn't accept, it would be ignoble." "Then who is it?" And he pressed her wrists still more tightly. The poor woman struggled for a few moments longer. "Oh, Maxime, if you knew! I can't, however, tell you--" Then conquered, crushed, looking with affright at the lighted window: "It is Monsieur de Saffré," she stammered in a very low voice.