Behind her spread-out fan she whispered a few words to M. de Meuze, who listened, bent towards her, his eyebrows arched in deep attention. "Do you think so?... I don't know whether he will.... Well, I shall take a chance!" He stepped uncertainly towards the next room, holding aloft his proud field-marshal's head and searching the groups with his one small green eye. At the door of the buffet he promptly turned to one side, his hand stretched out like a hook to catch someone who was walking away from him. Thérèse could distinguish nothing but the square shoulders and the brown neck above the shining white collar of the tall young man whom the marquis had caught. No doubt M. de Meuze must be asking something absurd and impracticable, for she could see that brown neck shaken in indignant denials; the young man was apparently asserting that they were mad or playing a trick upon him.... But suddenly she saw the neck assent and the tall man turned right about, shrugging his shoulders. The heart of Thérèse was suddenly twisted like a wounded serpent. It was almost Albârt. An older Albârt, more refined, more fashionable, of a superior class, but himself: the same big eyes of the color of a dark agate, the same black mustache with its impertinent tips, the same swaying of the body over two straight legs. He was coming towards her preceded by the marquis, his eyes awake as if to reconnoitre from afar and see what enemy it was against whom he was led. Thérèse bent her head down; her back was strained against her chair; she was gathered upon herself with fright. No longer did she see her parents nor the Chambannes, nor Boerzell, nor the couples that were beginning to dance, nor the people near her, nor those beyond. She saw nothing but the long patent leather shoes, the long narrow feet of the young man, and they were coming nearer, nearer still. When they were quite close to her the marquis effaced himself and bowed. "Mademoiselle, may I introduce my son, M. Gerald de Meuze...." The young count was slightly swaying before her. "Mademoiselle, will you please grant me the end of this dance?" Unconsciously, in the tone of a schoolgirl, Thérèse replied: "Monsieur, I cannot dance.... I do not know how." "What does it matter? It all depends on your partner...." He gave Mme. Chambannes a quick wink, either friendly or ironical, as if he were winning a bet. "No danger, Mademoiselle, I guarantee the waltz...." Sharply, in a sudden need to see him well, to take in all his features, Thérèse looked at him fixedly. She could not resist. Perspiration ran down her back. She was dominated by the desire to be in those arms, as once she had been in others so very much like them. She rose shortly, her voice almost harsh in spite of the smile with which she tried to correct it, and said: "Very well, monsieur, let us try."