“The Gochard paper?—­Bah! he will pay it.  More-ever, I am not involved in that.”

Suddenly she thought that she would act foolishly if she did not go where she pleased.  Sulpice might think what he pleased.  She got her maid to dress her hair.

“Madame is going to the theatre?”

“Yes, Justine.  To the Renaissance!”

She was greatly amused at the theatre, and was radiant with pleasure.  She was the object of many glances, and felt delighted at being alone.  One of the characters in the operetta was a duchess whose adventures afforded the audience much diversion.  She abandoned herself to her dreams, her thoughts wandering far from the theatre, the footlights and the actors, to the distant orange groves yonder.

During an entr’acte some one knocked at the door of her box.  She turned around in surprise.  It was Jouvenet, the Prefect of Police, who came to greet her in a very gallant fashion.  The prefect—­he had gained at the palais in former days, the title of L’Avocat Pathelin,—­with insinuating and wheedling manners, hastened to pay his meed of respect to Marianne when he met her.  There was no necessity to stand on ceremony with him.  He knew all her secrets.  Such a man, more-ever, must be treated prudently, as he can make himself useful.  Never had Jouvenet spoken to her of Vaudrey, he was too politic in matters of state.  But as a man who knows that everything in this world is transient, he skilfully maintained his place in the ranks, considering that a Prefect of Police might not be at all unlikely to succeed a President of the Council.

Marianne permitted him to talk, accepted all his gallantries as she might have done bonbons, and with a woman’s wit kept him at a distance without wounding his vanity.

Jouvenet with the simple purpose of showing her that he was well-informed, asked her, stroking his whiskers as he did so, if she often saw the Duc de Rosas.  What a charming man the duke was!  And while the young woman watched him as if to guess his thoughts, he smiled at her.

The prefect, not wishing to appear too persistent, changed the conversation with the remark: 

“Ah! there is one of our old friends ogling you!”

“An old friend?”

It was in fact Guy de Lissac who was standing at the balcony training his glass upon the box.

Marianne had only very occasionally met Lissac, but for some time she had suspected him of being secretly hostile to her.  Guy bore her a grudge for having taken Sulpice away from Adrienne.  He pitied Madame Vaudrey and perhaps his deep compassion was blended with another sentiment in which tenderness had taken the place of a more modified interest.  He was irritated against the blind husband because he could not see the perfect charms of that delicate soul, so timid and at the same time so devoted.  Although he had not felt justified in showing his annoyance to Vaudrey, he had manifested his dislike to Marianne under cover of his jesting manner, and she had been exceedingly piqued thereby.  Wherefore did this man who could not understand her, interfere, and why did he add to the injuries of old the mockery of to-day?