He waited under the old walnut trees of the avenue till the windows lighted up one by one in the darkness, and then retraced his steps.  As he passed the railway station, to which people were hurrying to catch an incoming train, he saw amid the confusion a tall woman in a mantilla kiss a young girl who was taking her leave.  The pale face under the mantilla, the long, delicate hands, that seemed ungloved out of a voluptuous caprice, how well he knew them!  How he saw the woman from head to foot in a flash!  His knees bent under him.  He felt an exquisite languor, as if he would die there and then!  No, he never believed she was so beautiful, so beyond price!  And he had thought to forget her!  He had imagined he could live without her, as if she did not sum up in herself the world and life and everything!

She turned into the lane leading to her house, walking at a smart pace, with her dress trailing and catching on the brambles, from which with a backward sweep of the hand and a rough pull she would twitch it clear.

Jean followed her, pushing his way deliberately through the same bramble bushes and exulting to feel the thorns scratch and tear his flesh.

She stopped at the gate, and Jean saw her profile, in its purity and dignity, clearly defined in the pale moonlight.  She was a long time in turning the key, and Jean could watch her face, the more enthralling to the senses for the absence of any tokens of disturbing intellectual effort.  He groaned in grief and rage to think how in another second the iron bars would be close between her and him.

No, he would not have it so; he darted forward, seized her by the hand, which he pressed in his own and kissed.

She gave a loud cry of terror, the cry of a frightened animal.  Jean was on his knees on the stone step, chafing the hand he held against his teeth, forcing the rings into the flesh of his lips.

A servant, a lady’s maid, came running up, holding a candle that had blown out.

“What is all this?” she asked breathlessly.

Jean released the hand, which bore the mark of his violence in a drop of blood, and got to his feet.

Gabrielle, panting and holding the wounded hand against her bosom, leant against the gate for support.

“I want to speak to you; I must,” cried Jean.

“Here’s pretty manners!” shrilled the maid-servant.  “Go your ways,” and she pointed with her candlestick first to one end, then to the other of the street.

The actress’s face was still convulsed with the shock of her terror.  Her lips were trembling and drawn back so as to show the teeth glittering.  But she realized that she had nothing to fear.

“What do you want with me?” she demanded.

He had lost his temerity since he had dropped her hand.  It was in a very gentle voice he said: 

“Madame, I beg and beseech you, let me say one word to you alone.”