“Zitto, zitto, piano, piano,
          Senza strepito e rumore,”

replied Marillac, putting his finger to his lips and lowering his voice.  “What you say is a surprise to me.  From the way in which you offered your arm to Madame de Bergenheim to lead her into the drawing-room after supper, I thought you understood each other perfectly.  As I was returning, for I made it my duty to offer my arm to the old lady—­and you say that I do nothing for you—­it seemed to me that I noticed a meeting of hands—­You know that I have an eagle eye.  She slipped a note into your hand as sure as my name is Marillac.”

Gerfaut took the note which he held crumpled up in his hand, and held it in the flame of one of the candles.  The paper ignited, and in less than a second nothing of it remained but a few dark pieces which fell into ashes upon the marble mantel.

“You burn it!  You are wrong,” said the artist; “as for me, I keep everything, letters and hair.  When I am old, I shall have the letters to read evenings, and shall weave an allegorical picture with the hair.  I shall hang it before my desk, so as to have before me a souvenir of the adorable creatures who furnished the threads.  I will answer for it that there will be every shade in it from that of Camille Hautier, my first love, who was an albino, to this that I have here.”

As he spoke, he took out of his pocket a small parcel from which he drew a lock of coal-black hair, which he spread out upon his hand.

“Did you pull this hair from Titania’s mane?” asked Gerfaut, as he drew through his fingers the more glossy than silky lock, which he ridiculed by this ironical supposition.

“They might be softer, I admit,” replied Marillac negligently; and he examined the lock submitted to this merciless criticism as if it were simply a piece of goods, of the fineness of whose texture he wished to assure himself.

“You will admit at least that the color is beautiful, and the quantity makes up for the quality.  Upon my word, this poor Reine has given me enough to make a pacha’s banner.  Provincial and primitive simplicity!  I know of one woman in particular who never gave an adorer more than seven of her hairs; and yet, at the end of three years, this cautious beauty was obliged to wear a false front.  All her hair had disappeared.

“Are you like me, Octave?  The first thing I ask for is one of these locks.  Women rather like this sort of childishness, and when they have granted you that, it is a snare spread for them which catches them.”

Marillac took the long, dark tress and held it near the candle; but his movement was so poorly calculated that the hair caught fire and was instantly destroyed.

“A bad sign,” exclaimed Gerfaut, who could not help laughing at his friend’s dismayed look.