It is possible that Von Sendlingen in transmitting to Clemenceau the notice by the butler’s wife, that the Viscount Gratian was to aid her in flight, but which as plainly revealed the wife’s flight, had expected the angered husband to execute justice on the betrayer.  Human laws could have absolved him if he had slain the couple at sight, but Clemenceau, after the example of his father, had resolved not to transgress the divine mandate again, even in this cause.  He would have separated the congenial spirits of cunning and deceit, but not by striking a blow, and the rebuke to Cesarine would have been so scathing she would never have had the impudence to see him again.  Not by murder did he mean to liberate himself.

On seeing that heaven had taken the parting of the gallant and the wanton into its hand, he had simply forbore to intervene.  On the one hand, he let Gratian’s mysterious and stealthy assassins stifle him and the other, Cesarine, run to the railroad station unhailed.  The one deserved death as the other deserved oblivion.

This woman was of the world and would be a clod when no longer living—­her essence would remain to inspirit some other evil woman—­the same malignity in a beautiful shape which appeared in Lais, Messalina, Lucrezia Borgia, the Medici, Ninon, Lecouvreur, Iza, not links of a chain, but the same gem, a little differently set.

But Rebecca’s was an ethereal spirit eternal.  Thinking of her he could believe himself young and comely again and loving forever in another sphere.  This was the being whom he would eternally adore, whether he or she were the first to quit the earth.

Here lay the consolation.  Cesarine, like all evil, was transient; Rebecca, like all good, everlasting.

“Let her come,” said he at last, lifting his head slowly and no longer troubled.  “She need not fear.  I shall bear in mind the Oriental proverb Daniels quoted:  ‘Do not beat a woman, even with roses!’”

Hardly were the words formed in his mind than his wife appeared as though by that mind reading, frequent in married couples—­she had waited for this assurance of her personal safety to be mentally formed.

In the short time given her toilet, she had performed wonders.  Perhaps, with a surprising effort of her will, she had snatched some rest, for her eyes wore the fresh, pellucid gleam after prolonged slumber.  Her cheeks were smooth and by artifice, seemed to wear the virginal down.  Easy and graceful as ever, she affected a slight constraint, which agreed with a pretence of avoiding his glances.

“You must be astonished to see me!” she exclaimed, for he did not say a word of greeting.

No man could have looked less astonished, and, with the greatest evenness of tone, he answered: 

“You ought to know that nothing you do astonishes me.”

“But I remember—­I wrote you a long letter explaining my absence and the necessity of my sudden departure—­the despatch from my poor uncle’s secretary—­I ordered it to be given you—­it explained my sudden departure—­”