“I paid ninety francs for it,” at last ejaculated Malignon in his impatience.

Thereupon she seemed delighted at having angered him.

On his self-possession returning, he inquired:  “Won’t you take off your cloak?”

“Oh, yes, I will,” she answered; “it is dreadfully warm here.”

She took off her bonnet as well, and this with her fur cloak he hastened to deposit in the next room.  When he returned, he found her seated in front of the fire, still gazing round her.  She had regained her gravity, and was disposed to display a more conciliatory demeanor.

“It’s all very ugly,” she said; “still, you are not amiss here.  The two rooms might have been made very pretty.”

“Oh! they’re good enough for my purpose!” he thoughtlessly replied, with a careless shrug of the shoulders.

The next moment, however, he bitterly regretted these silly words.  He could not possibly have been more impertinent or clumsy.  Juliette hung her head, and a sharp pang darted through her bosom.  Then he sought to turn to advantage the embarrassment into which he had plunged her.

“Juliette!” he said pleadingly, as he leaned towards her.

But with a gesture she forced him to resume his seat.  It was at the seaside, at Trouville, that Malignon, bored to death by the constant sight of the sea, had hit upon the happy idea of falling in love.  One evening he had taken hold of Juliette’s hand.  She had not seemed offended; in fact, she had at first bantered him over it.  Soon, though her head was empty and her heart free, she imagined that she loved him.  She had, so far, done nearly everything that her friends did around her; a lover only was lacking, and curiosity and a craving to be like the others had impelled her to secure one.  However, Malignon was vain enough to imagine that he might win her by force of wit, and allowed her time to accustom herself to playing the part of a coquette.  So, on the first outburst, which took place one night when they stood side by side gazing at the sea like a pair of lovers in a comic opera, she had repelled him, in her astonishment and vexation that he should spoil the romance which served as an amusement to her.

On his return to Paris Malignon had vowed that he would be more skilful in his attack.  He had just reacquired influence over her, during a fit of boredom which had come on with the close of a wearying winter, when the usual dissipations, dinners, balls, and first-night performances were beginning to pall on her with their dreary monotony.  And at last, her curiosity aroused, allured by the seeming mystery and piquancy of an intrigue, she had responded to his entreaties by consenting to meet him.  However, so wholly unruffled were her feelings, that she was as little disturbed, seated here by the side of Malignon, as when she paid visits to artists’ studios to solicit pictures for her charity bazaars.

“Juliette!  Juliette!” murmured the young man, striving to speak in caressing tones.