He allowed the young man to go on ahead, then he followed him with infinite precautions. Marcel was, indeed, going in the direction of the villa. Since he had been introduced to Madame Vignola, the whole tenor of his life had changed. He no longer thought either of chemistry, of the works, or even of his family. There was nothing in the world for him except the ravishing Italian. Could his uncle Graff have seen him, he would have said, “Ah, caught again! He has lost his head and his heart once more!” The fact was, he well knew that feverish state, which rendered Marcel incapable of thinking of anything else than his inamorata, and capable of the greatest acts of madness in the pursuit. But the special sign of love with this inflammable young fellow was the reasoning rigour with which he pursued the conquest of the loved one. He was an engineer and a mathematician even in his passion, neglecting nothing, and profiting by everything to advance his cause, and the court he paid was a veritable siege. Madame Vignola had only needed half a day, spent with Marcel, in her brother’s presence, to obtain sole possession of the young man’s mind. She had shown herself so charming and modest, and so cajoling, and chaste, that Cesare, who was, all the same, well aware what this remarkable actress was capable of, was quite stupefied at the result. The art of deception reaching such a stage of perfection became real genius. In dilettante fashion the handsome Italian had followed the progressive phases of his pretended sister’s manoeuvring. The two hours Marcel had passed at the villa had sped away like a flash of lightning. And the young swain, already love-smitten, had been obliged to retire, when he thought he had only been there a few moments. True, Madame Vignola, at her brother’s request, had seated herself at the piano, and, with penetrating and expressive tones, had sung a few Dalmatian airs in true artistic style. Marcel, an excellent musician himself, had accompanied the young woman, and afterwards offered some musical scores he kept at Ars as a distraction for the solitary evenings he often spent there. At his earnest request, Cesare had postponed his departure, and the following afternoon had been spent in the woods of Bossicant wandering along the narrow alleys, breathing the keen fresh air of the plain, and chatting in friendly fashion. That evening Cesare had pointed with a smile to his sister’s animated and healthy looking countenance, saying to Marcel— “You see what good it does her to have change and distraction. You would scarcely take her to be the same person. Ah! If only she could forget her grief every day in the same way, her usual health and good spirits would quickly come back.” “Then stay on; why should you go away?” asked Marcel. “Ah! It is not I who can give her the distraction she needs,” said the handsome Italian, heedlessly. A moment later he appeared to regret having spoken so frankly.