“Why should you think so?  I wish to be free.”

“Free?  Are you free?  Is a woman ever free?”

Jacqueline shook her head, as if expressing vague dissent.

“Free at least to see a little of the world,” she said, “to choose, to use my wings, in short—­”

And she moved her slender arms with an audacious gesture which had nothing in common with the flight of that mystic dove upon which she had meditated when holding the card given her by Giselle.

“Free to prefer some other man,” said Fred, who held fast to his idea with the tenacity of jealousy.

“Ah! that is different.  Supposing there were anyone whom I liked—­not more, but differently from the way I like you—­it is possible.  But you spoke of loving!”

“Your distinctions are too subtle,” said Fred.

“Because, much as it seems to astonish you, I am quite capable of seeing the difference,” said Jacqueline, with the look and the accent of a person who has had large experience.  “I have loved once—­a long time ago, a very long time ago, a thousand years and more.  Yes, I loved some one, as perhaps you love me, and I suffered more than you will ever suffer.  It is ended; it is over—­I think it is over forever.”

“How foolish!  At your age!”

“Yes, that kind of love is ended for me.  Others may please me, others do please me, as you said, but it is not the same thing.  Would you like to see the man I once loved?” asked Jacqueline, impelled by a juvenile desire to exhibit her experience, and also aware instinctively that to cast a scrap of past history to the curious sometimes turns off their attention on another track.  “He is near us now,” she added.

And while Fred’s angry eyes, under his frowning brows, were wandering all round the salon, she pointed to Hubert Marien with a movement of her fan.

Marien was looking on at the dancing, with his old smile, not so brilliant now as it had been.  He now only smiled at beauty collectively, which was well represented that evening in Madame de Nailles’s salon.  Young girls ‘en masse’ continued to delight him, but his admiration as an artist became less and less personal.

He had grown stout, his hair and beard were getting gray; he was interested no longer in Savonarola, having obtained, thanks to his picture, the medal of honor, and the Institute some months since had opened its doors to him.

“Marien?  You are laughing at me!” cried Fred.

“It is simply the truth.”

Some magnetic influence at that moment caused the painter to turn his eyes toward the spot where they were talking.

“We were speaking of you,” said Jacqueline.

And her tone was so singular that he dared not ask what they were saying.  With humility which had in it a certain touch of bitterness he said, still smiling: 

“You might find something better to do than to talk good or evil of a poor fellow who counts now for nothing.”