Dorsenne anticipated from his question toward what subject the conversation was drifting.  Gorka, now lying rather than sitting upon the divan in the small room, appeared like a beast that, at any moment, might bound.  Evidently he had come to Julien’s a prey to the mad desire to find out something, which is to jealousy what thirst is to certain punishments.  When one has tasted the bitter draught of certainty, one does not suffer less.  Yet one walks toward it, barefooted, on the heated pavement, heedless of the heat.  The motives which led Boleslas to choose the French novelist as the one from whom to obtain his information, demonstrated that the feline character of his physiognomy was not deceptive.  He understood Dorsenne much better than Dorsenne understood him.  He knew him to be nervous, on the one hand, and perspicacious on the other.  If there was an intrigue between Maitland and Madame Steno, Julien had surely observed it, and, approached in a certain manner, he would surely betray it.  Moreover—­for that violent and crafty nature abounded in perplexities—­Boleslas, who passionately admired the author’s talent, experienced a sort of indefinable attraction in exhibiting himself before him in the role of a frantic lover.  He was one of the persons who would have his photograph taken on his deathbed, so much importance did he attach to his person.  He would, no doubt, have been insulted, if the author of ‘Une Eglogue Mondaine’ had portrayed in a book himself and his love for Countess Steno, and yet he had only approached the author, had only chosen him as a confidant with the vague hope of impressing him.  He had even thought of suggesting to him some creation resembling himself.  Yes, Gorka was very complex, for he was not contented with deceiving his wife, he allowed the confiding creature to form a friendship with the daughter of her husband’s mistress.  Still, he deceived her with remorse, and had never ceased bearing her an affection as sorrowful as it was respectful.  But it required Dorsenne to admit the like anomalies, and the rare sensation of being observed in his passionate frenzy attracted the young man to some one who was at once a sure confidant, a possible portrayer, a moral accomplice.  It was necessary now, but it would not be an easy matter, to make of him his involuntary detective.

“You see,” resumed he suddenly, “to what miserable, detailed inquiries I have descended, I who always had a horror of espionage, as of some terrible degradation.  I shall question you frankly, for you are my friend.  And what a friend!  I intended to use artifice with you at first, but I was ashamed.  Passion takes possession of me and distorts me.  No matter what infamy presents itself, I rush into it, and then I am afraid.  Yes, I am afraid of myself!  But I have suffered so much!  You do not understand?  Well!  Listen,” continued he, covering Dorsenne with one of those glances so scrutinizing that not a gesture, not a quiver of his eyelids, escaped him, “and