a husband’s death impatiently.  Let him die, and there are some provincial women obtuse or silly or malicious enough to say:  ‘Here am I, free at last.’  The spent ball suddenly comes to life again, and falls plumb in the midst of our finest triumphs or our most carefully planned happiness.  I have seen that you love Beatrix.  I leave her therefore in a position where she loses nothing of her precious majesty; she will certainly coquet with you, if only to tease and annoy that angel of a Camille Maupin.  Well, my dear fellow, take her, love her, you’ll do me a great service; I want her to turn against me.  I have been afraid of her pride and her virtue.  Perhaps, in spite of my approval of the matter, it may take some time to effect this chassez-croissez.  On such occasions the wisest plan is to take no step at all.  I did, just now, as we walked about the lawn, attempt to let her see that I knew all, and was ready to congratulate her on her new happiness.  Well, she was furious!  At this moment I am desperately in love with the youngest and handsomest of our prima-donnas, Mademoiselle Falcon of the Grand Opera.  I think of marrying her; yes, I have got as far as that.  When you come to Paris you will see that I have changed a marquise for a queen.”

Calyste, whose candid face revealed his satisfaction, admitted his love for Beatrix, which was all that Conti wanted to discover.  There is no man in the world, however blase or depraved he may be, whose love will not flame up again the moment he sees it threatened by a rival.  He may wish to leave a woman, but he will never willingly let her leave him.  When a pair of lovers get to this extremity, both the man and the woman strive for priority of action, so deep is the wound to their vanity.  Questioned by the composer, Calyste related all that had happened during the last three weeks at Les Touches, delighted to find that Conti, who concealed his fury under an appearance of charming good-humor, took it all in good part.

“Come, let us go upstairs,” said the latter.  “Women are so distrustful; those two will wonder how we can sit here together without tearing each other’s hair out; they are even capable of coming down to listen.  I’ll serve you faithfully, my dear boy.  You’ll see me rough and jealous with the marquise; I shall seem to suspect her; there’s no better way to drive a woman to betray you.  You will be happy, and I shall be free.  Seem to pity that angel for belonging to a man without delicacy; show her a tear—­for you can weep, you are still young.  I, alas! can weep no more; and that’s a great advantage lost.”