“The sheepfold of Admetus,” said Madame de Godollo, “was at least a royal fold; I don’t think Apollo would have resigned himself to be the shepherd of a—­bourgeois.”

The hesitation that preceded that last word seemed to convey in place of it a proper name; and la Peyrade understood that Madame de Godollo, out of pure clemency, had suppressed that of Thuillier, had turned her remark upon the species and not the individual.

“I agree, madame, that your distinction is a just one,” he replied, “but in this case Apollo has no choice.”

“I don’t like persons who charge too much,” said the countess, “but still less do I like those who sell their merchandise below the market price; I always suspect such persons of trying to dupe me by some clever and complicated trick.  You know very well, monsieur, your own value, and your hypocritical humility displeases me immensely.  It proves to me that my kindly overtures have not produced even a beginning of confidence between us.”

“I assure you, madame, that up to the present time life has never justified the belief in any dazzling superiority in me.”

“Well, really,” said the Hungarian, “perhaps I ought to believe in the humility of a man who is willing to accept the pitiable finale of his life which I threw myself into the breach to prevent.”

“Just as I, perhaps,” said la Peyrade, with a touch of sarcasm, “ought to believe in the reality of a kindness which, in order to save me, has handled me so roughly.”

The countess cast a reproachful look upon her visitor; her fingers crumpled the ribbons of her gown; she lowered her eyes, and gave a sigh, so nearly imperceptible, so slight, that it might have passed for an accident in the most regular breathing.

“You are rancorous,” she said, “and you judge people by one aspect only.  After all,” she added, as if on reflection, “you are perhaps right in reminding me that I have taken the longest way round by meddling, rather ridiculously, in interests that do not concern me.  Go on, my dear monsieur, in the path of this glorious marriage which offers you so many combined inducements; only, let me hope that you may not repent a course with which I shall no longer interfere.”

The Provencal had not been spoilt by an experience of “bonnes fortunes.”  The poverty against which he had struggled so long never leads to affairs of gallantry, and since he had thrown off its harsh restraint, his mind being wholly given up to the anxious work of creating his future, the things of the heart had entered but slightly into his life; unless we must except the comedy he had played on Flavie.  We can therefore imagine the perplexity of this novice in the matter of adventures when he saw himself placed between the danger of losing what seemed to be a delightful opportunity, and the fear of finding a serpent amid the beautiful flowers that were offered to his grasp.  Too marked a reserve,