“Do not throw stones at me, I pray,” replied the Baron, with an appearance of equal good-humor.  “If your friend wants to ask an explanation of anybody it is of you, for you took some kirsch of 1765 for water.”

“I really believe that I was the drunker of the two,” interrupted Octave, with a vivacity which concealed a certain embarrassment; “we must have terribly scandalized Monsieur de Camier, who has but a poor opinion of Parisian heads and stomachs.”

After looking for a moment at the sleeping artist, Christian approached the table where Gerfaut was seated, and threw a glance over the latter’s writing.

“You are still at work, I see?” said he, as his eyes rested upon the paper.

“Just now I am following the modest trade of copyist.  These are some verses which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil asked me for—­”

“Will you do me a favor?  I am going to her room now; give me these verses to hand to her.  Since the misfortune that befell Constance, she has been terribly angry with me, and I shall not be sorry to have some reason for going to her room.”

Octave finished the two or three lines which remained to be copied, and handed the sheet to Bergenheim.  The latter looked at it attentively, then carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.

“I thank you, Monsieur,” said he, “I will leave you to your friendly duties.”

There was something so solemn in the calm accent of these words, and the polite bow which accompanied them, that Gerfaut felt chilled, though not alarmed, for he did not understand.

When he reached his room, Bergenheim opened the paper which Gerfaut had just given him and compared it with the letter he had received from Lambernier.  The suspicions which a separate examination had aroused were confirmed upon comparing the two letters; no doubt was possible; the letter and the poetry were written by the same hand!

After a few moments’ reflection, Christian went to his wife’s room.

Clemence was seated in an armchair, near the fireplace, indulging in a revery.  Although her lover was not there, she was still under the charm of this consuming as well as intellectual passion, which responded to the yearnings of her heart, the delicacy of her tastes, and the activity of her imagination.  At this moment, she was happy to live; there was not a sad thought that these words, “He loves me!” could not efface.

The noise of the opening door aroused her from her meditation.  Madame de Bergenheim turned her head with a look of vexation, but instead of the servant whom she was ready to reprimand, she saw her husband.  The expression of impatience imprinted upon her face gave way to one of fright.  She arose with a movement she could not repress, as if she had seen a stranger, and stood leaning against the mantel in a constrained attitude.  Nothing in Christian’s manner justified, however, the fear the sight of him seemed to cause his wife.  He advanced with a tranquil air, and a smile that he had forced upon his lips.