arrogate to yourself the right of preventing me from marrying as I wish, and of drawing myself out of the bog into which, perhaps, by your selfishness, I have fallen?  Ah, my dear fellow, really I am somewhat surprised at you, I swear!—­I said nothing because of those scraps of paper, that you would have been cowardly enough, I assert, to show Rosas and every line of which told how foolish I had been to love you.”

“Monsieur de Rosas would never have seen them!” said Lissac severely.

She did not seem to hear him.

“But now, what?  Thank God,” she continued, “there is nothing, and you have delivered those letters to me that you ought never to have returned.  And I have paid you for them, paid for them with new caresses and a last prostitution!  Well! that ends it, doesn’t it?  There is nothing more between us, nothing, nothing, nothing!—­And these two beings, who exchanged here their loveless kisses, the kisses of a debauchee and a courtesan, will never recognize each other again, I hope—­you hear, never recognize each other again—­when they meet in life.  Moreover, I will take care to avoid meetings!”

Guy said nothing.

He twirled his moustache slightly and continued to look at Marianne sideways without replying.

This indifference, though doubtless assumed, nevertheless annoyed the young woman.

“Go, find Monsieur de Rosas now!” she said.  “Tell him that you have been my lover, he will not believe you.”

“I am satisfied of that,” Lissac replied very calmly.

She realized a threat in his very calmness.  But what had she to fear now?

She fastened her ironical glance on Lissac, the better to defy him, and to enjoy his defeat.

With extended hands, he noiselessly tapped his fingers together, the gesture of a person who waits, sure of himself and displaying a mocking silence.

“Then adieu!” she said abruptly.  “I hope that we shall never see each other again!”

“How can you help it?” said Lissac, smiling.  “In Paris!”

He sat down on a chair, while Marianne stood, putting on her gloves.

“On my word, my dear Marianne, for a clever woman you are outrageously sanguine.”

“I?”

“And credulous!  You credit me with the simplicity of the Age of Gold, then?—­Is it possible?—­Do you think a corrupted Parisian like myself would allow himself to be trifled with like a schoolboy by a woman as extremely seductive as I confess you are?  But, my dear friend, the first rule in such matters is only to completely disarm one’s self when it is duly proved that peace has been definitely signed and that a return to offensive tactics is not to be feared.  You have shown your little pink claws too nimbly, Marianne.  Too quickly and too soon.  In one of those drawers, there are still one or two letters left, I was about to say, that belong to the series of letters that are slumbering:  exquisite, perfumed, eloquent, written in that pretty, fine and firm writing that you have just thrown into the fire, and those letters I would only have given you on your continuing to act fairly.  They were my reserve.  It is an elementary rule never to use all one’s powder at a single shot, and one never burns en bloc such delicate autographs.  They are too valuable!  Tell me, will you disdain to recognize me when you meet me, Miss Marianne?”