The latter was a relation of hers whom she deemed her cousin. His name was Demetrius Vassipoulo. He had not been more than eighteen months in Paris, was quite young--just turned three and twenty--and sported a thin brown mustache that seemed drawn with a pencil; yet Demetrius was already racing up on the footsteps of his Uncle Mouzarkhi. His future was already being discounted "on 'Change," as if it had been a state loan; he would surely make a colossal fortune or suffer a far-echoing bankruptcy. All day he ran through Paris, reclining in his carriage, which was hired by the month. His languid arm lay on the folded hood, like that of a rich capitalist stretching himself out. The brass on the harness and the horse's bell signaled his arrival and sparkled in the sunshine, his ensigns of triumph. Zozé loved him three months. He had the hot passion of an animal and the ingenuousness of a savage. He amused her and she told of his ardor to two or three intimate friends who drew comparisons with their own lovers. She initiated him into the attractions of social life, covering his candor with the web of established customs, just as his tailor dressed him according to fashion. However, she was tired of Demetrius after three months. She kept him for another two, out of kindness, she thought, albeit it was really out of caution and, perhaps unwittingly, because she had not found a better. The moment she fancied that she had discovered the matchless lover, she wasted no time in breaking with the youthful financier. She gave as a pretext that her husband had been warned and that she had to safeguard her honor. Demetrius wept bitterly and roared out his sorrow in words so harsh sounding that one might have thought it the cry of a stricken lion. Zozé felt remorseful during a whole week. At night she imagined herself hearing again his unintelligible cries. She dreamt of wild animals threatening her. Her new lover reproached her with being gloomy and sighing without cause. Her grief was not really eased until she saw Demetrius one night at the _Noveau Cirque_. He was in evening dress, with a white bow and carnations in his buttonhole; leaning on the front seat of a private box, by the side of a fat blonde girl, he was blowing his smoke in the faces of the clowns. Henceforth she felt no qualms; Lastours, her new lover, had no further cause to complain.