The duke was then going to see Mademoiselle Kayser only at Rue Cuvier, after having rediscovered her at Uncle Simon’s.

He felt in advance a kind of gratitude to this woman who thus abandoned the secret of her soul to him; giving him to understand that it was there that she passed her days, buried in her recollections, dreaming of her departed years, of that which had been, of that which might be, a living death.

Marianne had shrewdly divined the case.  For this great soul, mystery added a new sentiment to the feelings that Rosas experienced.  The first time that he found himself in that little abode where Simon Kayser’s niece awaited him, he was deeply moved, as if he had penetrated into the pure chamber of a young girl.  There, yonder, in that distant quarter, he found a peaceful retreat for one wounded by life, thirsting for solitude and passing there secret hours in the midst of loved books; in fact, the discreet dwelling of a poor teacher who had collected some choice bibelots that she had found by chance.  Rosas there felt himself surrounded by perfect virtue, amid the salvage of a happier past.  Marianne thus became what he imagined her to be, superior to her lot, living an intellectual life, consoling herself for the mortification of existence and the hideous experiences of life by poet’s dreams, in building for herself in Paris itself a sort of Thebais, where she was finally free and mistress of herself and where, when she was sad, she was not compelled to wear a mask or a false smile, and was free from all pretended gaiety.  And she was so often sad!

She had occasionally mentioned to Rosas the assumed name under which she lived at that place.

“Mademoiselle Robert!”

He had manifested surprise thereat.

“Yes, I do not wish them to know anything of me, not even my name.  You should understand the necessity that certain minds have for repose and forgetfulness.  Did not one of your sovereigns take his repose lying in his coffin?  Well!  I envy him and when I have pushed the bolt of my little room in Rue Cuvier, I tremble with delight, just as if I felt my heart beating in a coffin.  Do not tell any one.  They would desire to know and see.  People are so curious and so stupid!”

Marianne now seemed to be still more strange and seductive to Rosas.  All this romantic conduct, commonplace as it was, with which she surrounded herself, exalted her in the estimation of the duke.  She became in that little chamber where she was simply Mademoiselle Robert, a hundred times more charming and attractive to him than any problem:  a veritable Parisian sphinx.

She was not his mistress.  He loved her too deeply, with a holy, respectful passion, to take her hastily, as by chance, and Marianne was too skilful to risk any imprudent act, well-knowing that if she yielded too quickly, it would not be a woman who would fall into the duke’s arms, but an idol that descended from its pedestal.