He would have bitterly suffered at the hands of women, of one especially, a treacherous actress, in love with deceit, notoriety and money. Unwittingly, Mme. Chambannes allowed her mind to dwell on this last point.... The disillusioned lover to come would lift his upper lip in a contraction that showed what bitter experiences he had undergone. From his lips would surge blasphemies against the perfidious sex, man's enemy. Thereupon Mme. Chambannes would tenderly stop the anathemas with her kisses; she would lay that sorrowful head upon her breast and bring smiles back to those defiant lips. If necessary, and he wished it, she would go away with him. They would then become exiles on a small English island, far from the wicked world, and stay for hours together sitting alone on the sands of the seashore, hand in hand, indefinitely contemplating the changing play of the waves or the ships returning home. Why did this hero fail to arrive? She had made everything ready to receive him, even to follow him; down to an imaginary list of dresses and things which she would hurriedly pile up in a wicker trunk held by yellow straps and covered on the outside with a shining piece of black cowhide! He tarried on his way, but he did arrive. He was of the stay-at-home variety, selfish, titled, a libertine, he wore no beard, he had no languorous airs and no spite against anyone. Nevertheless Mme. Chambannes adored him from the very first. His name was Gerald de Meuze, son of the Marquis de Meuze, of the Poitou branch of the Meuzes. George had known him at college and later lost sight of him. The introduction occurred at one of the Auteuil races. It was a quiet Thursday, almost an intimate spring meeting. It proved decisive. George, out of pride or his passion for gambling, soon left them alone to look after his bets, and Gerald stuck close to Mme. Chambannes. He walked her out before the reserved seats, escorted her to the paddock, lost his way with her behind the buildings on the broad green expanses which were deserted by the public whenever a new race began. A strong odor of hay, damp and sharp as a sea air-laden breeze, entered their lungs. Mme. Chambannes could hardly speak for happiness. A new ecstasy caused her breasts to tremble under her light silk blouse. She walked with her head bent forward, her eyes aimlessly watching the tips of her shiny patent leather shoes sliding on the grass. At last the longed-for lover had come! She had got hold of him! No power could have dissuaded her! She laughed nervously at all the remarks of Gerald, thinking that, when she looked at him she was replying to him; she thought she was losing her mind; the handle of her saffron sunshade trembled against her shoulder. The little Mouzarkhi girl would have felt even more intoxicated had she heard what was being said of her in the exclusive club members' tribune, among the friends of the young Count.