striking the artist on the cheek. Mr. Lovell never flinched; but the lady, rushing forward, caught her husband by the wrist. She looked at him, still with laughter in her eyes.
"Try not to be insane."
The Vicomte glared at her with a glare which, at least, was characteristic.
"Why do I not kill her—why?"
The lady only smiled.
"They say that a woman is devoid of humour. How is it then sometimes with a man? You, Philippe, are always thinking of the Porte St. Martin—I, of the Bouffes Parisien."
The Vicomte turned to his friend.
"Victor, why do I not kill this woman?"
M. Berigny only shrugged his shoulders. Possibly because he was not ready with a more adequate reply. The lady turned to the artist.
"Monsieur, I offer you ten thousand apologies, which my husband will one day offer you himself, as becomes a gentleman of France."
The Vicomte repeated his inquiry:
"Victor, why do I not kill this woman?"
Only a shrug in reply. The lady went on:
"You have immortalized my poor face, Monsieur; my husband insults you in return."
The Vicomte folded his arms across his chest.
"It is certain, Victor, that she still lives!"
"One night, Monsieur, my husband locked me in my room. He designed to make of me a prisoner. Why? Ah, do not ask me why! When he had left me, I escaped, not by the door which he had locked, but by a door he had not noticed. This door led into an apartment in which there was a stranger sleeping. I was but an instant in that apartment—but the instant in which it was necessary to pass through. The sleeper never spoke to me; he never saw me with his waking eyes. But, even in his sleep, my poor, frightened face so flashed upon his brain that, even in his waking hours, it haunted him so that he made of it a picture—a picture of that vision of the night!"
The Vicomte approached closer to his friend. He addressed him in a sort of confidential, but still distinctly audible, aside:
"Victor, is it possible that this is true?"
"I beg, my friend, that of me you will ask nothing."
"Monsieur, this morning I was at your Academy. I saw my own countenance looking at me from the walls. For the first time I learned that my poor, frightened woman's face had appeared to a sleeping stranger in a vision of the night. Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!"
The lady covered her face with her hands. It would, perhaps, be rash to say that she cried; but, at least, she seemed to cry, and if it was only seeming, she did it very well.
"Victor," again inquired the Vicomte of his friend, "is it possible that this is true?"
M. Berigny wagged his finger in the Vicomte's face.
"D'Humières, it now becomes a question of hats."
The Vicomte laid his hand on his companion's arm.
"One instant, Victor—still one instant more."
The lady, uncovering her eyes—which actually were sparkling with tears—continued to address the artist:
"Monsieur, I will not speak to you of my love for my husband—my Philippe! I will not speak to you of how we have been parted for a year—a whole, long year—mon Dieu, Monsieur, mon Dieu! I will not speak to you of how, every instant of that long, long year I have thought of him, of how I have yearned for him, of how I have longed for one touch of his hand, one word from his lips, one glance from his eyes. No, Monsieur, I will not speak to you of all these things. And for this reason: That, with me, all things are finished. I go, never to return again. My face—you have made immortal; the rest of me will perish. For the woman whose heart is broken there remains but one place—the grave. It is to that place I go!"
The lady had become as tragic as her husband—even more so, in her way. She moved across the room with the air of a tragedy queen—Parisian. The Vicomte was visibly affected. He fastened a convulsive clutch upon M. Berigny's arm.
"Victor, tell me, what shall I do? Advise me, oh, my friend! This is a critical moment in my life! It is impossible that I should let her go. Antoinette!"
The Vicomte advanced, just in time, between the lady and the door.
"Monsieur, I entreat of you this last boon, to let me go. You have insulted me in the presence of a stranger; for me, therefore, nothing else remains. You have inquired if you should kill me. No, Philippe, you need not kill me; it is myself I will kill!"
"Antoinette!"
"I am no longer Antoinette; I am the
