“Oh! capital, capital,” exclaimed Juliette of a sudden.

Madame Berthier’s head was now reclining on Madame de Guiraud’s shoulder, and she was declaring through her sobs:  “’I am sure that he loves her; I am sure of it!’”

“Your success will be immense,” said Juliette.  “Say that once more:  ’I am sure that he loves her; I am sure of it.’  Leave your head as it is.  You’re divine.  Now, Madame de Guiraud, your turn.”

“‘No, no, my child, it cannot be; it is a caprice, a fancy,’” replied the stout lady.

“Perfect! but oh, the scene is a long one, isn’t it?  Let us rest a little while.  We must have that incident in proper working order.”

Then they all three plunged into a discussion regarding the arrangement of the drawing-room.  The dining-room door, to the left, would serve for entrances and exits; an easy-chair could be placed on the right, a couch at the farther end, and the table could be pushed close to the fireplace.  Helene, who had risen, followed them about, as though she felt an interest in these scenic arrangements.  She had now abandoned her idea of eliciting an explanation, and merely wished to make a last effort to prevent Juliette from going to the place of meeting.

“I intended asking you,” she said to her, “if it isn’t to-day that you mean to pay Madame de Chermette a visit?”

“Yes, this afternoon.”

“Then, if you’ll allow me, I’ll go with you; it’s such a long time since I promised to go to see her.”

For a moment Juliette betrayed signs of embarrassment, but speedily regained her self-possession.

“Of course, I should be very happy.  Only I have so many things to look after; I must do some shopping first, and I have no idea at what time I shall be able to get to Madame de Chermette’s.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Helene; “it will enable me to have a walk.”

“Listen; I will speak to you candidly.  Well, you must not press me.  You would be in my way.  Let it be some other Monday.”

This was said without a trace of emotion, so flatly and with so quiet a smile that Helene was dumbfounded and uttered not another syllable.  She was obliged to lend some assistance to Juliette, who suddenly decided to bring the table close to the fireplace.  Then she drew back, and the rehearsal began once more.  In a soliloquy which followed the scene, Madame de Guiraud with considerable power spoke these two sentences:  “’But what a treacherous gulf is the heart of man!  In truth, we are worth more than they!’”

And Helene, what ought she to do now?  Within her breast the question raised a storm that stirred her to vague thoughts of violence.  She experienced an irresistible desire to be revenged on Juliette’s tranquillity, as if that self-possession were an insult directed against her own fevered heart.  She dreamed of facilitating her fall, that she might see whether she would always retain this unruffled demeanor.