He could not resist the impulse that transported him.  He folded in his arms the slender, supple form of Antoinette, and imprinted upon her hair a kiss of flame, a true Polish kiss.  She offered no resistance; but at this moment the bat that had already forced upon her its distasteful company renewed the attack, struck her full in the face, and stuck fast in her hood.  Antoinette felt the touch of its cold, clammy wings, of its hooked claws.  She tore the hood from her head and flung it away in horror.  Samuel Brohl sprang forward to pick it up, pressed it to his lips, and made his escape, like a thief carrying off his booty.

When Antoinette re-entered the salon, she found there Mlle. Moiseney, whose boisterous, overwhelming joy had just put M. Moriaz to flight.  This time Mlle. Moiseney knew everything.  She had seen Samuel Brohl arrive, she had been unable to control her overweening curiosity, and, without the slightest scruples, she had listened at the door.  She cast herself into Antoinette’s arms, pressed her to her heart, and cried:  “Ah, my dear! oh, my dear!  Did I not always say that it would end thus?”

Mlle. Moriaz hastened to free herself from her embraces; she felt the need of being alone.  On entering her chamber she took a hasty survey of it:  her furniture, her pretty knick-knacks, her rose-tined tapestry, the muslin hangings of her bed, the large silver crucifix hanging on the extreme wall, all seemed to regard her with astonishment, asking, “What has happened?” And she replied: 

“You are right, something has happened.”

She remained in contemplation before a portrait of her mother, whom she had lost very young.

“I have been told,” she mused, “that you were a great romance-reader.  I do not care for romances at all—­I scarcely ever read them; but I have just been making one myself, with which you would not be discontented.  This man would astonish you a little; he would please you still more.  Some hours ago he seemed lost to me forever.  I brazened it out.  I went in search of him, and when he saw me he surrendered.  Only now he was with me on the terrace; his lips touched me here on my hair, and thrilled me from head to foot.  Do not feel displeased with me—­his are pure and royal lips!  They have been touched by the sacred fire; they never have lied; never have there fallen from them other than proud and noble words; they modestly recount the history of a life without blemish Ah! why are you not here?  I have a thousand things to say to you, which you alone could comprehend; others do not comprehend me.”

She began her toilet for the night.  When she had unfastened her hair, she remembered that there was One in her chamber who could comprehend everything, and to whom she had yet said nothing.  She knelt down, her wealth of hair streaming over her beautiful shoulders, her hands reverently clasped, her eyes fixed on the silver crucifix, and she said, in a low tone: