“Listen,” she said in a resolute and sincere tone:  “this is possible.  I have loved you, and after you, no one can enter the heart you have despised.  You will hear that I have lovers; believe it not; you will not believe it, remembering the woman that I am.  But who knows?  Later your life may be swept clean of the other sentiments that have stood in my way; the freedom, the strangeness of the avowal I have just made to you will remain in your memory, and then it is not impossible that after this long rejection you may end by desiring me.  If that should happen,—­if at the end of many sad deceptions you should return, in sheer remorse, to the religion of art,—­then, then, supposing that long years have not made love ridiculous between us, remember this evening.  Now, let us part; it is already too late for a tete-a-tete.”

So saying, she took a light and passed into an inner room, leaving Sallenauve in a state of mind we can readily imagine after the various shocks and surprises of this interview.

On returning to his hotel he found Jacques Bricheteau awaiting him.

“Where the devil have you been?” cried the organist, impatiently.  “It is too late now to take the steamboat.”

“Well,” said Sallenauve, carelessly, “then I shall have a few hours longer to play truant.”

“But during that time your enemies are tunnelling their mine.”

“I don’t care.  In that cave called political life one has to be ready for anything.”

“I thought as much!” exclaimed Bricheteau.  “You have been to see Luigia; her success has turned your head, and the deputy is thinking of his statues.”

“How often have I heard you say yourself that Art alone is great?”

“But an orator,” replied Bricheteau, “is also an artist, and the greatest of all.  Others speak to the heart and the mind, but he to the conscience and the will of others.  At any rate, this is no time to look back; you are engaged in a duel with your adversaries.  Are you an honest man, or a scoundrel who has stolen a name?  There is the question which may, in consequence of your absence, be answered against you in the Chamber.”

“I begin to feel that you have led me into a mistaken path; I had in my hands a treasure, and I have flung it away!”

“Happily,” said the organist, “that’s only an evening mist which the night will dissipate.  To-morrow you will remember the engagement you are under to your father, and the great future which is before you.”

IX

IN THE CHAMBER

The king had opened the Chamber, but Sallenauve was not present, and his absence was causing a certain sensation in the democratic ranks.  The “National” was particularly disturbed.  As a stockholder of the paper, coming frequently to its office before the election, and even consenting to write articles for it, how strange that on the eve of the opening of the session the newly elected deputy should not come near it!