“And I hesitated,” said she to herself, “I thought of sparing her!”

The following morning, toward noon, she found herself at the atelier, seated beside Madame Steno, while Lincoln gave to the portrait the last touches, and while Alba posed in the large armchair, absent and pale as usual.  Florent Chapron, after having assisted at part of the sitting, left the room, leaning upon the crutch, which he still used.  His withdrawal seemed so propitious to Lydia that she resolved immediately not to allow such an opportunity to escape, and as if fatality interfered to render her work of infamy more easy, Madame Steno aided her by suddenly interrupting the work of the painter who, after hard working without speaking for half an hour, paused to wipe his forehead, on which were large drops of perspiration, so great was his excitement.

“Come, my little Linco,” said she, with the affectionate solicitude of an old mistress, “you must rest.  For two hours you have not ceased painting, and such minute details....  It tires me merely to watch you.”

“I am not at all tired,” replied Maitland, who, however, laid down his palette and brush, and rolling a cigarette, lighted it, continuing, with a proud smile:  “We have only that one superiority, we Americans, but we have it—­it is a power to apply ourselves which the Old World no longer knows....  It is for that reason that there are professions in which we have no rivals.”

“But see!” replied Lydia, “you have taken Alba for a Bostonian or a New Yorker, and you have made her pose so long that she is pale.  She must have a change.  Come with me, dear, I will show you the costume they have sent me from Paris, and which I shall wear this afternoon to the garden party at the English embassy.”

She forced Alba Steno to rise from the armchair as she uttered those words, then she entwined her arms about her waist to draw her away and kissed her.  Ah, if ever a caress merited being compared to the hideous flattery of Iscariot, it was that, and the young girl might have replied with the sublime words:  “Friend, why hast thou betrayed me by a kiss?” Alas!  She believed in it, in the sincerity of that proof of affection, and she returned her false friend’s kiss with a gratitude which did not soften that heart saturated with hatred, for five minutes had not passed ere Lydia had put into execution her hideous project.  Under the pretext of reaching the liner-room more quickly, she took a servant’s staircase, which led to that lobby with the glass partition, in which was the opening through which to look into the atelier.

“This is very strange,” said she, pausing suddenly.  And, pointing out to her innocent companion the round spot, she said:  “Probably some servant who has wished to eavesdrop.—­But what for?  You, who are tall, look and see how it has been done and what it looks on.  If it is a hole cut purposely, I shall discover the culprit and he shall go.”