With the presence of mind with which all women seem to be gifted, Clemence fell back into her chair, and, assuming a languid, suffering tone, mixed with an appearance of reproach, she said: 

“I am glad to see you for a moment in order to scold you; you have not shown your usual consideration to-night.  Did you not think that the noise from the dining-room might reach as far as here?”

“Has it troubled you?” asked Christian, looking at her attentively.

“Unless one had a head of cast-iron—­It seems that these gentlemen have abused the liberty permitted in the country.  From what Justine tells me, things have taken place which would have been more appropriate at the Femme-sans-Tete.”

“Are you suffering very much?”

“A frightful neuralgia—­I only wish I could sleep.”

“I was wrong not to have thought of this.  You will forgive me, will you not?”

Bergenheim leaned over the chair, passed his arm around the young woman’s shoulders, and pressed his lips to her forehead.  For the first time in his life, he was playing a part upon the marital stage, and he watched with the closest attention the slightest expression of his wife’s face.  He noticed that she shivered, and that her forehead which he had lightly touched was as cold as marble.

He arose and took several turns about the room, avoiding even a glance at her, for the aversion which she had just shown toward her husband seemed to him positive proof of the very thing he dreaded, and he feared he should not be able to contain himself.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked, as she noticed his agitation.

These words brought the Baron to his senses, and he returned to her side, replying in a careless tone: 

“I am annoyed for a very simple cause; it concerns your aunt.”

“I know.  She is furious against you on account of the double misfortune to her dog and coachman.  You will admit that, as far as Constance is concerned, you are guilty.”

“She is not content with being furious; she threatens a complete rupture.  Here, read this.”

He handed her a large letter, folded lengthwise and sealed with the Corandeuil crest.

Madame de Bergenheim took the letter and read its contents aloud: 

“After the unheard-of and unqualifiable events of this day, the resolution which I have formed will doubtless not surprise you in the least, Monsieur.  You will understand that I can not and will not remain longer in a house where the lives of my servants and other creatures which are dear to me may be exposed to the most deplorable, wilful injury.  I have seen for some time, although I have tried to close my eyes to the light of truth, the plots that were hatched daily against all who wore the Corandeuil livery.  I supposed that I should not be obliged to put an end to this highly unpleasant matter myself, but that you would undertake