When Felicia saw the two young people going off together, when she had realized the fact, which they had not yet grasped themselves, that they were in love with each other, she felt as it were a crumbling all around her.  Then upon her dream, now fallen to the ground in a thousand fragments, she set herself to stamp furiously.  After all, he was quite right to prefer this little Aline to herself.  Would an honest man ever dare to marry Mlle. Ruys?  She, a home, a family—­what nonsense!  A harlot’s daughter you are, my dear; you must be a harlot too if you want to become anything at all.

The day wore on.  The crowd, more active now that there were empty spaces here and there, commenced to stream towards the door of exit after great eddyings round the successes of the year, satisfied, rather tired, but excited still by that air charged with the electricity of art.  A great flood of sunlight, such as sometimes occurs at four o’clock in the afternoon, fell on the stained-glass rose-window, threw on the sand tracks of rainbow-coloured lights, softly bathing the bronze or the marble of the statues, imparting an iridescent hue to the nudity of a beautiful figure, giving to the vast museum something of the luminous life of a garden.  Felicia, absorbed in her deep and sad reverie, did not notice the man who advanced towards her, superb, elegant, fascinating, through the respectfully opened ranks of the public, while the name of “Mora” was everywhere whispered.

“Well, mademoiselle, you have made a splendid success.  I only regret one thing about it, and that is the cruel symbol which you have hidden in your masterpiece.”

As she saw the duke before her, she shuddered.

“Ah, yes, the symbol,” she said, lifting her face towards his with a smile of discouragement; and leaning against the pedestal of the large, voluptuous statue near which they happened to be standing, with the closed eyes of a woman who gives or abandons herself, she murmured low, very low: 

“Rabelais lied, as all men lie.  The truth is that the fox is utterly wearied, that he is at the end of his breath and his courage, ready to fall into the ditch, and that if the greyhound makes another effort——­”

Mora started, became a shade paler, all the blood he had in his body rushing back to his heart.  Two sombre flames met with their eyes, two rapid words were exchanged by lips that hardly moved; then the duke bowed profoundly, and walked away with a step gay and light, as though the gods were bearing him.

At that moment there was in the palace only one man as happy as he, and that was the Nabob.  Escorted by his friends, he occupied, quite filled up, the principal bay with his own party alone, speaking loudly, gesticulating, proud to such a degree that he looked almost handsome, as though by dint of naive and long contemplation of his bust he had been touched by something of the splendid idealization with which the artist