Maurice.  What was it you did?

Henriette.  I won’t tell, for then you would get scared again.

Maurice.  Can you never be found out?

Henriette.  Never.  But that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds.

Maurice.  Was it that kind of a crime?

Henriette.  Yes, it was that kind.

Maurice.  Of course, it’s horrible, but it is interesting.  Have you no conscience?

Henriette.  None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of something else.

Maurice.  Suppose we talk of—­love?

Henriette.  Of that you don’t talk until it is over.

Maurice.  Have you been in love with Adolphe?

Henriette.  I don’t know.  The goodness of his nature drew me like some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood.  Yet there was much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a presentable figure of him.  When he talked, I could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was often badly digested and awkwardly applied.  You can imagine then how miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to study the original.  That’s why he was afraid of having us two meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time was up.

Maurice.  Poor Adolphe!

Henriette.  I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be suffering beyond all bounds—­

Maurice.  Sh!  Somebody is coming.

Henriette.  I wonder if it could be he?

Maurice.  That would be unbearable.

Henriette.  No, it isn’t he, but if it had been, how do you think the situation would have shaped itself?

Maurice.  At first he would have been a little sore at you because he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place—­and tried to find us in several other cafes—­but his soreness would have changed into pleasure at finding us—­and seeing that we had not deceived him.  And in the joy at having wronged us by his suspicions, he would love both of us.  And so it would make him happy to notice that we had become such good friends.  It had always been his dream—­hm! he is making the speech now—­his dream that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the world a great example of friendship asking for nothing—­“Yes, I trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly because your feelings are tied up elsewhere.”

Henriette.  Bravo!  You must have been in a similar situation before, or you couldn’t give such a lifelike picture of it.  Do you know that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot enjoy his mistress without having his friend along?