What was to be done? He paced to and fro, but there was no sight of her and no sign. Near the house was a stall-keeper whom André bribed and questioned. But the man replied-- “The Señora purchases of me, but if she knew I talked of her to any one she would buy of my rivals. I can only tell you her name: she is the Señora Dona Concepcion Perez, wife of Don Manuel Garcia. Her husband is in Bolivia.” André heard no more, but returned to his hotel and remained there undecided. Even upon learning of the absence of the Señora’s husband, he had not also learnt that all the chances were upon his side. The reserve of the dealer, who seemed to know more than he would care to say, rather left one with the idea that there was another and luckier lover already chosen and enthroned. The attitude of the servant at the gates increased this awkward afterthought. André had to return to Paris in two weeks’ time. Would those weeks suffice for planning and effecting an entry into the life of a beautiful young dame, whose life was without much doubt planned, rounded, complete? While thus troubled with his incertitudes a letter was handed to him. It had no address on the envelope. He said, “Are you sure that this letter is for me?” “It has just been given to me for Don Andrés Stévenol.” The letter was written upon a blue card, and was as follows-- “Don Andrés Stévenol is begged to not make so much noise, to not give his name or demand to know mine. If he is out walking to-morrow about three on the Empalme route a carriage will be passing. It may stop.” André thought how easy life was, and already had visions of approaching intimacy. He even sought for and murmured the most tender little forms of her charming Christian name Concepcion, Concha, Conchita, Chita. CHAPTER III On the morning of the morrow André Stévenol had a radiant awakening. The light flooded his room, which had four windows. There also came to him the murmurs of the town. There were the feet of horses passing, street cries, mules’ bells, and the bells of convents. He could not recall having known a morning as happy as this present one was; no, not for a long time. He flung out his arms and stretched them; then held them tightly folded around his breast as though to give himself the illusion or the anticipation of that eagerly awaited embrace. “How easy, how simple the affairs of life are, after all!” So he mused, smiling. “Yesterday, at this hour I was alone, without an object to fill my mind, almost without a thought. It was merely necessary to take a walk and, behold! a change of scene, a love-affair in view. What is the use of taking any notice of refusals, of disdain, or any such things. We desire and demand, and the women give themselves. Why should it ever be otherwise?”