“Hush! strangers present!” and in uttering this talismanic cue between married people, he pointed to the shadow on the curtains.

Rebecca had concluded her pilotage of M. Cantagnac and it was he whom Clemenceau soon after presented to his wife.

“Let me add, M. Cantagnac, that you must be my guest as long as you stay at Montmorency, for the hotels are conducted solely for the excursionists who come out of Paris and their accommodations would not please you.  You are expected to sit down to dinner with us at one o’clock, country fashion and I will order a bedroom ready also.”

“Gracious heavens! you are really too good!” exclaimed Cantagnac, lifting his hands almost devoutly.

CHAPTER XVII.

DEMON AND ARCH-DEMON.

After one sharp slighting look at the visitor, Madame Clemenceau had withdrawn her senses within herself, so to say, to come to a conclusion on the singular conduct of her husband.  His cold scorn daunted her, and filled her with dread.  Had not the Jewess been on the spot, whom she believed to be a rival once more, however high was her character and Hedwig’s eulogy, she would have prudently fled again without fighting.  She had the less reason to stay, as the house was to be sold, in a manner of speaking, from under her feet.

Yet the Marseillais was worth more than a passing glance.  When alone with the lady, whom he regarded steadfastly, a radical change took place in his carriage, and he who had been so easy and oily became stiff, stern and rigid.  It was the attitude no longer of a secret agent, wearing the mien and mask of his profession, but of a military spy, who stands before a subordinate when disguise is superfluous.

“Truly, she is more bewitching than when I first knew her,” he muttered between his close teeth, as if he admired with awe and suppressed breath.  “What a pretty monster she is!”

Feeling that his view was weighing upon her, Madame Clemenceau suddenly looked up.  It seemed to her that something in the altered and insolent bearing was not unknown to her but the recollection was hazy, and the black whiskers perplexed.

“Did you speak, monsieur?” she said, to give herself countenance.

“I spoke nothing,” he replied still in the smooth accent which was not familiar to her.  “A man of business like myself, feels bound, if he has any natural turning that way, to become a physiognomist and thought-reader in order not to pay too dearly for bargains; I am happy to say that I rarely blunder.”

“Then you can read my disposition?” exclaimed Cesarine mockingly.

“I knew it before.”

“Indeed! then you would do me a great service, monsieur, if you would tell me how it strikes you, as an average man.  For I assure you,” she went on, taking a seat without pointing out one to him, “that some days I do not understand myself, a most humiliating thing, though ancient wisdom acknowledged that the hardest thing is self-knowledge.”