He had now glided into the room and upon the piano stool, and, as if by magic divining her wish, silently opened the piece of music for which she had been hunting.  For the first time their eyes met without any medium, for he had discarded the tinted spectacles he usually wore.  These were not the worn orbs of a man who had pored over crabbed partitions for sixty years.  They were eyes familiar to her.

“Major Von Sendlingen!” she exclaimed, in a kind of terror; for women, being judges of duplicity, are alarmed by any one successful in disguises.

“Precisely, but do not be alarmed.  You struck me in warfare, and I forgive your share in that paltry incident.  I am your friend, now.  By the way, as a proof of that assertion, let me tell you that the viscount is no more worthy of you than that ever-dreaming student.  You think he adores you? pfui! only so far as you will aid the realization of his ambition.  Besides, he is only an officer in our ranks; he is not unbridled, and at any moment he may be ordered away.  Renounce this kind of love, my child, not durable and unendurable!”

Was this the major preaching?  He who had held with the hare and run with the hounds, that is, tried to win the ascending and the declining star!

“Tell me,” he continued, seriously, “tell me when you can control your heart, and it is I who will set you on that stage where you should have figured long since.”

She had turned pale and she bit her lip.  Her dullness in not suspecting the identity of this spy, her lover, pained her acutely.  She had thought to read the Sphynx, and it had its paw upon her.  Her exasperation was so keen that she determined to be revenged on both the speaker and Gratian, whose inferiority to the major was manifest.

“They shall see how I can plot,” she thought, “and best of all, how I carry off the prize which I need to obtain a station of my own selection in society.”

One thing she saw clearly, that Von Sendlingen was out of her clutches.  He still acknowledged her attractions, but he was obedient to a master more paramount.  If only he had been capable of jealousy!  But, no, he had alluded to the Viscount de Terremonde’s flame with perfect indifference.  Like Clemenceau, he would not have fought a duel for her choice.  Nevertheless, her husband might have another burst of the homicidal instinct which his father showed in Paris, and he in Germany.  While refusing a duel as illogical, he might fell Gratian after the model he had displayed for Major Von Sendlingen’s profit in Munich.

Perhaps, though, Clemenceau was no longer jealous.

Hedwig had told her of letters addressed to Daniels which she had to mail, if Clemenceau was in correspondence with the old Jew, he would not have forgotten his daughter, the only woman of whom Cesarine harbored jealousy.

But she could attain her end, profound, treacherous and bloody, like the dream of a frivolous woman going to extremes.  The revelation of Von Sendlingen’s presence enlightened her and filled the gap in her plan.