That name, pronounced by her, fell on him like a mass of lead; he never would have believed that there could be so much weight in a human word.  He trembled under the blow; then he struck his brow with his clinched hand and replied: 

“Samuel Brohl is a man as worthy of your pity as he is of mine.  If you knew all that he has suffered, all that he has dared, you could not help deeply pitying him and admiring him.  Listen to me; Samuel Brohl is an unfortunate man—­”

“Or a wretch!” she interrupted, in a terrible voice.  She was seized by a fit of nervous laughter; she cried out:  “Mme. Brohl!  I will not be called Mme. Brohl.  Ah! that poor Countess Larinski!”

He had a spasm of rage that would have terrified her had she conjectured what agitated him.  He raised his head, crossed his arms on his breast, and said, with a bitter smile: 

“It was not the man that you loved, it was the count.”

She replied, “The man whom I loved never lied.”

“Yes, I lied!” he cried, gasping for breath.  “I drank that cup of shame without remorse or disgust.  I lied because I loved you madly.  I lied because you were dearer to me than my honour.  I lied because I despaired of touching your heart, and any road seemed good that led to you.  Why did I meet you? why could I not see you without recognising in you the dream of my whole life?  Happiness had passed me by, it was about to take flight; I caught it in a trap—­I lied.  Who would not lie, to be loved by you?”

Samuel Brohl never had looked so handsome.  Despair and passion kindled a sombre flame in his eyes; he had the sinister charm of a fiery Satan.  He fixed on Antoinette a fascinating glance that said:  “What matter my name, my lies, and the rest?  My face is not a mask, and I am the man who pleased you.”  He had not the least suspicion of the astonishing facility with which Antoinette had taken back the heart that she had given away so easily; he did not suspect that miracles can be wrought by contempt.  In the middle ages people believed in golems, figures in clay of an entrancing beauty, which had all the appearance of life.  Under a lock of hair was written, in Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word “Truth.”  If they chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their charm, the clay was no longer anything but clay.

Mlle. Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl’s thought; she exclaimed:  “The man I loved was he whose history you related to me.”

He would have liked to kill her, so that she never should belong to another.  Behind Antoinette, not twenty steps distant, he descried the curb of a well, and grew dizzy at the sight.  He discovered, with despair, that he was not made of the stuff for crime.  He dropped down on his knees in the grass, and cried, “If you will not pardon me, nothing remains for me but to die!” She stood motionless and impassive.  She repeated between her teeth Camille Langis’s phrase:  “I am waiting until this great comedian has finished playing his piece.”