And she thought of herself scornfully as she recalled her delicacy and scruples.  Twenty times already she ought to have said to Henri:  “I love you; let us go away together.”  Could she have done so, however, without the most intense emotion?  Could she have displayed the callous composure of this woman, who, three hours before her first assignation, was rehearsing a comedy in her own home?  Even at this moment she trembled more than Juliette; what maddened her was the consciousness of her own passion amidst the quiet cheerfulness of this drawing-room; she was terrified lest she should burst out into some angry speech.  Was she a coward, then?

But all at once a door opened, and Henri’s voice reached her ear:  “Do not disturb yourselves.  I’m only passing.”

The rehearsal was drawing to a close.  Juliette, who was still reading Chavigny’s part, had just caught hold of Madame de Guiraud’s hand.  “Ernestine, I adore you!” she exclaimed with an outburst of passionate earnestness.

“Then Madame de Blainville is no longer beloved by you?” inquired Madame de Guiraud.

However, so long as her husband was present Juliette declined to proceed.  There was no need of the men knowing anything about it.  The doctor showed himself most polite to the ladies; he complimented them and predicted an immense success.  With black gloves on his hands and his face clean-shaven he was about to begin his round of visits.  On his entry he had merely greeted Helene with a slight bow.  At the Comedie Francais he had seen some very great actress in the character of Madame de Lery, and he acquainted Madame de Guiraud with some of the usual by-play of the scene.

“At the moment when Chavigny is going to throw himself at your feet, you fling the purse into the fire.  Dispassionately, you know, without any anger, like a woman who plays with love.”

“All right; leave us alone,” said Juliette.  “We know all about it.”

At last, when they had heard him close his study door, she began once more:  “Ernestine, I adore you!”

Prior to his departure Henri had saluted Helene with the same slight bow.  She sat dumb, as though awaiting some catastrophe.  The sudden appearance of the husband had seemed to her ominous; but when he had gone, his courtesy and evident blindness made him seem to her ridiculous.  So he also gave attention to this idiotic comedy!  And there was no loving fire in his eye as he looked at her sitting there!  The whole house had become hateful and cold to her.  Here was a downfall; there was nothing to restrain her any longer, for she abhorred Henri as much as Juliette.  Within her pocket she held the letter in her convulsive grasp.  At last, murmuring “Good-bye for the present,” she quitted the room, her head swimming and the furniture seeming to dance around her.  And in her ears rang these words, uttered by Madame de Guiraud: 

“Adieu.  You will perhaps think badly of me to-day, but you will have some kindly feeling for me to-morrow, and, believe me, that is much better than a caprice.”