I was standing behind my wife, and a change of position would have meant coming very close to Mme. de H--, whose manœuvres completely non-plussed me. It was very evident that she intended to make no advance to Raymonde, who, paralysed with fear, had become so pale that she kept up only with difficulty. She was exposed to public gaze like the little Christian martyrs of old, exhibited in full view before they were thrown to the wild beasts at the Coliseum. And I read contempt for me in the eyes of Pierre Ducal, who stood looking at me. As soon as Raymonde gained her self-control she stepped forward and heroically extended her hand to Mme. de H--. As she did so, the picture of it all impressed itself on my mind: her beautiful profile looked like an alabaster bas-relief of a saint, with a halo about her head. But this fleeting image quickly faded from my mind in the contemplation of the simplicity of the situation which I had feared would be so complex. “She knows nothing,” I assured myself, “how could she know? One always unnecessarily exaggerates the importance of things which do not happen and never will. It is a vicious habit to worry.” On the other hand one often minimises the import of incidents, as was the case with me in this instance, because I could not understand the magnanimity of which my wife was capable. We are prone to forget bullets which have missed their mark, and, their danger once averted, promptly disregard their deadly power. A concert was to be given during this evening of which I am writing. Mme. de H--, who was playing a game which I did not understand, invited me to a chair which she had reserved for me. No one seemed to take any notice of this fact, for other dramas, some suspected and others definitely known, had absorbed the general attention. I remained with her even during the intermission, while my wife sat alone several feet away. “Now that she has forgiven Ducal, he will surely go and talk to her,” I thought; and I even hoped that he would, in order that she might not appear so completely ignored. But Ducal did not approach her. Withheld by his respect for her, he did not presume that her pardon gave him the right to address her. And he left without a word to her. What a lesson it was for me to realise that her divine forgiveness had converted the heart of so hard a cynic as Pierre Ducal. When we returned home, I, with my consummate egotism, desired most condescendingly to express my approval of her conduct. Had she not behaved well? And I, I was very much relieved and indeed happy, and yet I could not bring myself to tell her what I had planned, for I read an expression in her eyes which seemed to say: