And all at once, in the delight of their kisses, Aline became sad.  Her eyes filled with tears.  She said to him:  “Felicia is there.  You will love me no longer.”  And he laughed, “Felicia here?  What an idea!” “Yes, yes; she is there.”  Trembling she pointed to the next room, from which came angry barks, and the voice of Felicia:  “Here, Kadour!  Here, Kadour!” the low, concentrated, furious voice of some one who is hiding and suddenly discovered.

Wide awake, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in his empty room, before an empty table, his dream, fled through the window to the great hillside.  But he heard very distinctly in the next room the bark of a dog, and hurried knocks on the door.

“Open the door!  It is I—­it is Jenkins.”

Paul sat up on his divan, stupefied.  Jenkins here?  How was that?  To whom was he speaking?  What voice was going to answer him?  No one answered.  A light step went to the door, and the lock creaked nervously.

“Here you are at last,” said the Irishman, entering.

And truly if he had not taken care to announce himself, Paul would never have taken this brutal, violent, hoarse voice heard through the partition for the doctor’s with his sugary manners.

“At last I have found you after a week of searching, of mad rushing from Genoa to Nice, from Nice to Genoa.  I knew that you had not gone, because the yacht was in the harbour, and I was going to inspect all the inns on the coast, when I remembered Brehat.  I have just come from him.  It was he who told me you were here.”

But to whom was he speaking?  Who was so singularly obstinate?  At last a beautiful, sad voice, which Paul well knew, made the hot afternoon air vibrate.

“Well, yes, Jenkins, here I am.  What is the matter?”

Through the wall Paul could see the disdainful mouth, turned down with disgust.

“I have come to prevent you from going—­from doing this foolish thing.”

“What foolish thing?  I have some work at Tunis.  I must go there.”

“But you don’t think, my dear child, that—­”

“Oh, enough of your fatherly airs, Jenkins.  We know what lies underneath it.  Speak to me as you did just now.  I prefer the bull-dog to the spaniel.  I fear it less.”

“Well, I tell you that you must be mad to go over there alone, young and beautiful as you are.”

“And am I not always alone?  Would you like me to take Constance, at her age?”

“Or me?”

“You!” She pronounced the word with an ironical laugh.  “And what about Paris?  And your patients—­deprive society of its Cagliostro?  Never, on any account.”

“I have, however, made up my mind to follow you wherever you go,” said Jenkins resolutely.

There was an instant of silence.  Paul asked himself if it was worthy of him to listen to this conversation which was full of terrible revelations.  But in spite of his fatigue an invincible curiosity nailed him to the spot.  It seemed to him that the enigma which had so long been perplexing and troubling him was going to be solved at last, to show the woman sad or perverse, concealed by the fashionable artist.  He remained there, still holding his breath, needlessly, however; for the two, believing themselves to be alone in the hotel, let their passions and their voices rise without constraint.