“Comment!” she said, holding out her hand—­the pretty, ungloved hand that had just been kissed—­“is that your good night?”

I bowed over the hand, I would not have touched it with my lips at that moment for all the wealth of Paris.

“You are coming to me to-morrow morning at twelve?” she murmured tenderly.

“If Madame desires it.”

“Of course I desire it.  I am going to Auteuil, to look at a house for a friend—­and to Pignot’s for some flowers—­and to Lubin’s for some scent—­and to a host of places.  What should I do without you?  Nay, why that grave face?  Have I done anything to offend you?”

“Madame, I—­I confess that—­”

“That you are jealous of that absurd Delaroche, who is so much in love with himself that he has no place in his heart for any one else! Fi donc! I am ashamed of you.  There—­adieu, twelve to-morrow!”

And with this she laughed, waved her hand, gave the signal to drive on, and left me looking after the carriage, still irritated but already half consoled.

I then sauntered moodily on, thinking of my tyrant, and her caprices, and her beauty.  Her smile, for instance; surely it was the sweetest smile in the world—­if only she were less lavish of it!  Then, what a delicious little hand—­if mine were the only lips permitted to kiss it!  Why was she so charming?—­or why, being so charming, need she prize the attentions of every flaneur who had only enough wit to admire her?  Was I not a fool to believe that she cared more for my devotion than for another’s!  Did I believe it?  Yes ... no ... sometimes.  But then that “sometimes” was only when under the immediate influence of her presence.  She fascinated me; but she would fascinate a hundred others in precisely the same way.  It was true that she accepted from me more devotion, more worship, more time, more outward and visible homage than from any other.  Was I not her Cavaliere servente? Did she not accept my bouquets?  Did she not say the other day, when I gave her that volume of Tennyson, that she loved all that was English for my sake?  Surely, I was worse than ungrateful, when, having so much, I was still dissatisfied!  Why was I not the happiest fellow in Paris?  Why .....

My meditations were here interrupted by a sudden flash of very vivid lightning, followed by a low muttering of distant thunder.  I paused, and looked round.  The sky was darker than ever, and though the air was singularly stagnant, I could hear among the uppermost leaves of the tall trees that stealthy rustling that generally precedes a storm.  Unfortunately for myself, I had not felt disposed to go home at once on leaving the theatre; but, being restless alike in mind and body, had struck down through the Place Vendome and up the Rue de Rivoli, intending to come home by a circuitous route.  At this precise moment I found myself in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, with Cleopatra’s needle towering above my head,