be accepted merely as my reading of them, and for what, as such, it is worth.  The actual facts speak for themselves.  Let each man read them as he will; and if he does not indorse all my views, yet he will, I venture to think, be recompensed by a story which even the greatest familiarity and long pondering has not robbed of all its interest for me.  But then I must admit that I have reasons which no one else can have for following with avidity every stage and every development in the drama, and for seeking to discern now what at the time was dark and puzzling to me.

The thing began in the most ordinary way in the world—­or perhaps that is too strongly put.  The beginning was ordinary indeed, and tame, compared with the sequel.  Yet even the beginning had a flavor of the unusual about it, strong enough to startle a man so used to a humdrum life and so unversed in anything out of the common as I. Here, then, is the beginning: 

One morning, as I sat smoking my after-breakfast cigar in my rooms in St. James’ Street, my friend Gustave de Berensac rushed in.  His bright brown eyes were sparkling, his mustache seemed twisted up more gayly and triumphantly than ever, and his manner was redolent of high spirits.  Yet it was a dull, somber, misty morning, for all that the month was July and another day or two would bring August.  But Gustave was a merry fellow, though always (as I had occasion to remember later on) within the limits of becoming mirth—­as to which, to be sure, there may be much difference of opinion.

“Shame!” he cried, pointing at me.  “You are a man of leisure, nothing keeps you here; yet you stay in this bouillon of an atmosphere, with France only twenty miles away over the sea!”

“They have fogs in France too,” said I.  “But whither tends your impassioned speech, my good friend?  Have you got leave?”

Gustave was at this time an extra secretary at the French Embassy in London.

“Leave?  Yes, I have leave—­and, what is more, I have a charming invitation.”

“My congratulations,” said I.

“An invitation which includes a friend,” he continued, sitting down.  “Ah, you smile!  You mean that is less interesting?”

“A man may smile and smile, and not be a villain,” said I.  “I meant nothing of the sort.  I smiled at your exhilaration—­nothing more, on the word of a moral Englishman.”

Gustave grimaced; then he waved his cigarette in the air, exclaiming: 

“She is charming, my dear Gilbert!”

“The exhilaration is explained.”

“There is not a word to be said against her,” he added hastily.

“That does not depress me,” said I.  “But why should she invite me?”

“She doesn’t invite you; she invites me to bring—­anybody!”

“Then she is ennuyée, I presume?”

“Who would not be, placed as she is?  He is inhuman!”

“M. le mari?”