There almost always comes a moment when a woman, in her combat against love, is obliged to call falsehood to the help of duty.  Madame de Bergenheim had entered this terrible period, in which virtue, doubting its own strength, does not blush to resort to other resources.  At the moment when Octave, a man of experience, was seeking assistance in exciting her jealousy, she was meditating a plan of defence founded upon deceit.  In order to take away all hope from her lover, she pretended a sudden affection for her husband, and in spite of her secret remorse she persisted in this role for two days; but during the night her tears expiated her treachery.  Christian greeted his wife’s virtuous coquetry with the gratitude and eagerness of a husband who has been deprived of love more than he likes.  Gerfaut was very indignant at the sight of this perfidious manoeuvre, the intention of which he immediately divined; and his rage wanted only provocation to break out in full force.

One evening they were all gathered in the drawing-room with the exception of Aline, whom a reprimand from Mademoiselle de Corandeuil had exiled to her room.  The old lady, stretched out in her chair, had decided to be unfaithful to her whist in favor of conversation.  Marillac, leaning his elbows upon a round table, was negligently sketching some political caricatures, at that time very much the fashion, and particularly agreeable to the Legitimist party.  Christian, who was seated near his wife, whose hand he was pressing with caressing familiarity, passed from one subject to another, and showed in his conversation the overwhelming conceit of a happy man who regards his happiness as a proof of superiority.

Gerfaut, standing, gazed gloomily at Clemence, who leaned toward her husband and seemed to listen eagerly to his slightest word.  Bergenheim was a faithful admirer of the classics, as are all country gentlemen, who introduce a sentiment of propriety into their literary opinions and prefer the ancient writers to the modern, for the reason that their libraries are much richer in old works than in modern books.  The Baron unmercifully sacrificed Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas, whom he had never read, upon the altar of Racine and Corneille, of which he possessed two or three editions, and yet it would have embarrassed him to recite half a dozen verses from them.  Marillac boldly defended the cause of contemporary literature, which he considered as a personal matter, and poured out a profusion of sarcastic remarks in which there was more wit than good taste.

“The gods fell from Olympus, why should they not also fall from Parnassus?” said the artist, finally, with a triumphant air.  “Say what you will, Bergenheim, your feeble opposition will not prevail against the instincts of the age.  The future is ours, let me tell you, and we are the high priests of the new religion; is it not so, Gerfaut?”

At these words, Mademoiselle de Corandeuil shook her head, gravely.