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And then, what Lissac said had the effect of consoling her! Guy's reproaches to Sulpice were such as she would have liked to cast at him, if she could have found speech now. But not a word could she frame. She was stunned, dumb and like a crushed being. She knew only one thing, that she suffered horribly, as she had never before suffered.
Lissac, meantime, felt a sort of physical delight in leaving those cold passages and that stone dwelling. The fresh breeze of a gray November day appeared to him to be as gentle as in spring. It seemed that he had lived in that den for weeks. He flung himself into a carriage, had himself driven home, and was received by his concierge with stupefied amazement. "You, monsieur?" he said. "Already!"
In any case, what would Rosas risk by passing a few days in London, and losing the burning of that kiss? The sea-breezes would perhaps efface it. "I am certainly feverish," the duke thought. "It was assuredly necessary to speak to Lissac. It was also necessary to speak to her," he added, in a dissatisfied, anxious, almost angry tone. A danger!
"The more so because if she at all resembles her portrait at the last Salon, she must be lovely indeed." He left the greenroom, leaning on the arm of Lissac, after throwing a glance backward, however, at the girls whirling about there, and where in the presence of their stiff, ancient superiors, the young sub-prefects still hid their faces behind their opera hats.
The idea was not distasteful to Rosas. Involuntarily, perhaps, he thought that a conversation with Lissac was, in some way, a chat with Marianne. These two beings were coupled in his recollections and preoccupations; besides, he really liked Guy. The Parisian was the complement of the Castilian.
A man with a military air, tall, handsome and in tightly-buttoned frock-coat, passed and saluted the President of the Council; then, Jouvenet, the Prefect of Police, looking like a notary's senior clerk, his abundant black hair plastered on his head, a large, black portfolio under his arm, approached the minister and bowed. Vaudrey, having Lissac in mind, returned his salutation coldly.
"We are too old friends, Lissac and I, for him not to allow me the pleasure of hearing from your own lips, madame, in what way I may be of service to you, or to any of your friends." Sabine smiled at this well-turned phrase uttered in the most gallant tone. Who then, could have told her that Vaudrey was a provincial? An intimate enemy or an intimate friend. But he was not at all provincial.
Slowly as if afraid that Guy would not give them to her, she extended her bare arm toward the packet of letters and snatched it suddenly. "My letters!" "It is an entire romance," said Lissac. "Less the epilogue!" she said, still enveloping him with her intense look. She placed the packet on the velvet-covered mantelpiece and hastily finished dressing.
"Ah! it is too much; yes, it is too much!" repeated Adrienne, as if Lissac were again repeating that phrase. It seemed to her that she had been thrust into some cowardly situation; that she had been subjected to a shower of filth! It was hideous, repugnant. She now saw, in the depths of her life, events that she had never before seen; her vision had suddenly become clear.
I do not affirm this, remember; but she will never be moved by your affection. She is a pure Parisian, and is incapable of loving you as you deserve, but you could not deceive her, as they say she has been." "Deceived?" asked Rosas, in a tone of pity that struck Lissac. "Deceived! yes! deceit is the complementary school of love." "Then if I loved Marianne?" asked Rosas.
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