“Madame,” he faltered out, “I do not deserve the happiness of seeing you.  I have deceived you basely.  However strong the motive may have been, it can never excuse the pitiful subterfuge which I used to gain my end.  But, madame, if your goodness will permit me to tell you——­”

The Vicomtesse glanced at M. de Nueil, haughty disdain in her whole manner.  She stretched her hand to the bell and rang it.

“Jacques,” she said, “light this gentleman to the door,” and she looked with dignity at the visitor.

She rose proudly, bowed to Gaston, and then stooped for the fallen volume.  If all her movements on his entrance had been caressingly dainty and gracious, her every gesture now was no less severely frigid.  M. de Nueil rose to his feet, but he stood waiting.  Mme. de Beauseant flung another glance at him.  “Well, why do you not go?” she seemed to say.

There was such cutting irony in that glance that Gaston grew white as if he were about to faint.  Tears came into his eyes, but he would not let them fall, and scorching shame and despair dried them.  He looked back at Madame de Beauseant, and a certain pride and consciousness of his own worth was mingled with his humility; the Vicomtesse had a right to punish him, but ought she to use her right?  Then he went out.

As he crossed the ante-chamber, a clear head, and wits sharpened by passion, were not slow to grasp the danger of his situation.

“If I leave this house, I can never come back to it again,” he said to himself.  “The Vicomtesse will always think of me as a fool.  It is impossible that a woman, and such a woman, should not guess the love that she has called forth.  Perhaps she feels a little, vague, involuntary regret for dismissing me so abruptly.—­But she could not do otherwise, and she cannot recall her sentence.  It rests with me to understand her.”

At that thought Gaston stopped short on the flight of steps with an exclamation; he turned sharply, saying, “I have forgotten something,” and went back to the salon.  The lackey, all respect for a baron and the rights of property, was completely deceived by the natural utterance, and followed him.  Gaston returned quietly and unannounced.  The Vicomtesse, thinking that the intruder was the servant, looked up and beheld M. de Nueil.

“Jacques lighted me to the door,” he said, with a half-sad smile which dispelled any suspicion of jest in those words, while the tone in which they were spoken went to the heart.  Mme. de Beauseant was disarmed.

“Very well, take a seat,” she said.

Gaston eagerly took possession of a chair.  His eyes were shining with happiness; the Vicomtesse, unable to endure the brilliant light in them, looked down at the book.  She was enjoying a delicious, ever new sensation; the sense of a man’s delight in her presence is an unfailing feminine instinct.  And then, besides, he had divined her, and a woman is so grateful to the man who has mastered the apparently capricious, yet logical, reasoning of her heart; who can track her thought through the seemingly contradictory workings of her mind, and read the sensations, shy or bold, written in fleeting red, a bewildering maze of coquetry and self-revelation.