“That,” said Dorsenne, “is another subject which we will treat of some other day, for I am afraid now of being late....  Adieu.”

“Adieu,” said the Marquis, with evident regret at parting.  Then, brusquely:  “I do not know why I like you so much, for in the main you incarnate one of those vices of mind which inspire me with the most horror, that dilettanteism set in vogue by the disciples of Monsieur Renan, and which is the very foundation of the decline.  You will recover from it, I hope.  You are so young!” Then becoming again jovial and mocking:  “May you enjoy yourself in your descent of Courtille; I almost forgot that I had a message to give to you for one of the supernumeraries of your troop.  Will you tell Gorka that I have dislodged the book for which he asked me before his departure?”

“Gorka,” replied Julien, “has been in Poland three months on family business.  I just told you how that trip cost him his mistress.”

“What,” said Montfanon, “in Poland?  I saw him this morning as plainly as I see you.  He passed the Fountain du Triton in a cab.  If I had not been in such haste to reach Ribalta’s in time to save the Montluc, I could have stopped him, but we were both in too great a hurry.”

“You are sure that Gorka is in Rome—­Boleslas Gorka?” insisted Dorsenne.

“What is there surprising in that?” said Montfanon.  “It is quite natural that he should not wish to remain away long from a city where he has left a wife and a mistress.  I suppose your Slav and your Anglo-Saxon have no prejudices, and that they share their Venetian with a dilettanteism quite modern.  It is cosmopolitan, indeed....  Well, once more, adieu....  Deliver my message to him if you see him, and,” his face again expressed a childish malice, “do not fail to tell Mademoiselle Hafner that her father’s daughter will never, never have this volume.  It is not for intriguers!” And, laughing like a mischievous schoolboy, he pressed the book more tightly under his arm, repeating:  “She shall not have it.  Listen....  And tell her plainly.  She shall not have it!”

CHAPTER II

THE BEGINNING OF A DRAMA

“There is an intelligent man, who never questions his ideas,” said Dorsenne to himself, when the Marquis had left him.  “He is like the Socialists.  What vigor of mind in that old wornout machine!” And for a brief moment he watched, with a glance in which there was at least as much admiration as pity, the Marquis, who was disappearing down the Rue de la Propagande, and who walked at the rapid pace characteristic of monomaniacs.  They follow their thoughts instead of heeding objects.  However, the care he exercised in avoiding the sun’s line for the shade attested the instincts of an old Roman, who knew the danger of the first rays of spring beneath that blue sky.  For a moment Montfanon paused to give alms to one of the numerous mendicants who abound in the neighborhood