One volume, however, claimed particular attention.  The binding, unlike those of the other books, was less rich than dainty.  Lying by itself at a corner of the table, it was open, with the back turned up, the edges of the leaves resting on the green table-cloth in the shape of a tent.  La Peyrade took it up, being careful not to lose the page which it seemed to have been some one’s intention to mark.  It proved to be a volume of the illustrated edition of Monsieur Scribe’s works.  The engraving which presented itself on the open page to la Peyrade’s eyes, was entitled “The Hatred of a Woman”; the principal personage of which is a young widow, desperately pursuing a poor young man who cannot help himself.  There is hatred all round.  Through her devilries she almost makes him lose his reputation, and does make him miss a rich marriage; but the end is that she gives him more than she took away from him, and makes a husband of the man who was thought her victim.

If chance had put this volume apart from the rest, and had left it open at the precise page where la Peyrade found it marked, it must be owned that, after what had passed between himself and the countess, chance can sometimes seem clever and adroit.  As he stood there, thinking over the significance which this more or less accidental combination might have, la Peyrade read through a number of scenes to see whether in the details as well as the general whole they applied to the present situation.  While thus employed, the sound of an opening door was heard, and he recognized the silvery and slightly drawling voice of the countess, who was evidently accompanying some visitor to the door.

“Then I may promise the ambassadress,” said a man’s voice, “that you will honor her ball with your presence?”

“Yes, commander, if my headache, which is just beginning to get a little better, is kind enough to go away.”

“Au revoir, then, fairest lady,” said the gentleman.  After which the doors were closed, and silence reigned once more.

The title of commander reassured la Peyrade somewhat, for it was not the rank of a young dandy.  He was nevertheless curious to know who this personage was with whom the countess had been shut up so long.  Hearing no one approach the room he was in, he went to the window and opened the curtain cautiously, prepared to let it drop back at the slightest noise, and to make a quick right-about-face to avoid being caught, “flagrante delicto,” in curiosity.  An elegant coupe, standing at a little distance, was now driven up to the house, a footman in showy livery hastened to open the door, and a little old man, with a light and jaunty movement, though it was evident he was one of those relics of the past who have not yet abandoned powder, stepped quickly into the carriage, which was then driven rapidly away.  La Peyrade had time to observe on his breast a perfect string of decorations.  This, combined with the powdered hair, was certain evidence of a diplomatic individual.