Zilah remembered this Jacquemin now.  It was he whom he had seen taking notes upon the parapet of the quay, and afterward at the wedding, where he had been brought by the Baroness Dinati.  It was Jacquemin who was such a favorite with the little Baroness; who was one of the licensed distributors of celebrity and quasi-celebrity for all those who live upon gossip and for gossip-great ladies who love to see their names in print, and actresses wild over a new role; who was one of the chroniclers of fashion, received everywhere, flattered, caressed, petted; whom the Prince had just seen, very elegant with his stick and eyeglass, and his careless, disdainful air; and who had said, like a man accustomed to every magnificence, fatigued with luxury, blase with pleasure, and caring only for what is truly pschutt (to use the latest slang):  “Pretty women so rarely go there!”

Zilah thought that, as the Baroness had a particular predilection for Jacquemin, it was perhaps she, who, in her gay chatter, had related the story to the reporter, and who, without knowing it probably, assuredly without wishing it, had furnished an article for ‘L’Actualite’.  In all honor, Jacquemin was really the spoiled child of the Baroness, the director of the entertainments at her house.  With a little more conceit, Jacquemin, who was by no means lacking in that quality, however, might have believed that the pretty little woman was in love with him.  The truth is, the Baroness Dinati was only in love with the reporter’s articles, those society articles in which he never forgot her, but paid, with a string of printed compliments, for his champagne and truffles.

“And yet,” thought Zilah, “no, upon reflection, I am certain that the Baroness had nothing to do with this outrage.  Neither with intention nor through imprudence would she have given any of these details to this man.”

Now that the Prince knew his real name, he might have sent to Monsieur Puck, Varhely, and another of his friends.  Jacquemin would then give an explanation; for of reparation Zilah thought little.  And yet, full of anger, and not having Menko before him, he longed to punish some one; he wished, that, having been made to suffer so himself, some one should expiate his pain.  He would chastise this butterfly reporter, who had dared to interfere with his affairs, and wreak his vengeance upon him as if he were the coward who had fled.  And, besides, who knew, after all, if this Jacquemin were not the confidant of Menko?  Varhely would not have recognized in the Prince the generous Zilah of former times, full of pity, and ready to forgive an injury.

Andras could not meet Jacquemin that day, unless he waited for him at the office of ‘L’Actualite’ until the races were over, and he therefore postponed his intended interview until the next day.