“Need we quarrel?” said Bruslart.

“No; let us laugh at each other.  In our different ways, doubtless, we shall both be satisfied.”

Latour did not often laugh, but he laughed now as he turned to the door.  The curtains over the archway leading to an inner room swayed outwards with the draught as he opened the door, and then seemed to draw back suddenly, as Latour said good-by, still laughing.  The door was closed, the footsteps went quickly down the stairs, the curtains hung straight for a little space.  Then they parted sharply, and a woman, holding them on either side of her, stood between them.

CHAPTER VII

A JEALOUS WOMAN

The archway archway into the inner room was behind Bruslart, but he did not turn as the curtains parted.  He knew the woman was hidden in that room, she had gone there when Latour was announced; he knew that she must have overheard the conversation, that she would ask questions, but for the moment he was absorbed in Latour’s news.  That Rouzet had failed to reach Beauvais was a disaster he had not reckoned upon.

“Lucien!”

“My direct and opinionated friend has gone, Pauline, you may come out of hiding.”

Still for a moment the woman stood there grasping the curtains, as though she would will the man to turn and look at her.  She was angry, the flash in her eyes Was evidence of the fact, yet she was not unconscious of the picture she made at that moment.  A woman is seldom angry enough to forget her beauty.  Beautiful she certainly was, or Lucien Bruslart would have taken little interest in her.  Beauty was as necessary to him as luxury, and in this case was even more dangerous.  Here was another proof that he was no coward, or he would surely not have placed himself in the hands of Pauline Vaison.  She was dark, her figure rather full, voluptuous yet perfect in contour.  Her movements were quick, virile, full of life, seductive yet passionate.  She was a beautiful young animal, her graces all unstudied, nature’s gifts, a dangerous animal if roused, love concealing sharp claws ready to tear in pieces if love were spurned.  Her personality might have raised her to power in the dissolute Court of the fifteenth Louis, even in this Paris of revolution she might play a part.

Letting the curtains fall together she came and faced Lucien, who looked at her and smiled.

“I heard all he said.  I listened.”

“Interesting, wasn’t it?” Lucien answered.  “It is a marvel to me how fast news travels, and how important unimportant things become.  I shouldn’t Wonder if he knows exactly what I have eaten to-day.”

“Paris knows something of Latour,” she answered.  “He is not a man to waste his time over trifles.”

“It certainly appears that he considers me of some consequence since he troubled to visit me.”

“And you lied to him.”