“We shall meet again, my dear count,” she said to him, in a clear voice, emphasizing her words; “and I hope that, before long, we shall make the acquaintance of the Countess Larinski.”

He looked at her in astonishment, and murmured, “I lost my mother ten years ago.”

Immediately, without giving Mme. de Lorcy time to explain herself, he directed his steps hastily towards the door, followed by three glances, all three of which spoke, although they did not all say the same thing.  The room was large; during the thirty seconds that it took him to cross it, the angel of silence hovered in the air.

He was about passing through the door, when, as fatality ordained, there occurred to him an unfortunate and disastrous thought.  He could not resist the desire to see Mlle. Moriaz once more, to impress forever on his memory her adored image.  He turned, and their eyes met.  He paid dearly for this weakness of the will.  Apparently the violent restraint that he had exercised over himself for an hour had exhausted his strength.  It seemed to him that his heart ceased to beat; he felt his legs stiffen, and refuse to serve him; his teeth clinched, his pupils dilated, consciousness forsook him.  Suddenly, heavily as a mass of lead, he fell prone upon the floor, where he remained in a senseless condition.

Mlle. Moriaz could not suppress a cry, and seemed for a moment on the point of fainting herself.  Mme. de Lorcy drew her arm around her waist, and hurried her into the next room, throwing to M. Langis a bottle of salts as she did so, and saying, “Take care of Count Larinski.”

The first thing that M. Langis did was to set the bottle on the table, after which he went close up to Samuel Brohl, who, fainting and inanimate, bore almost the appearance of death.  He examined him an instant, bent over him, then, folding his arms and shrugging his shoulders, he said to him, “Monsieur, Mlle. Moriaz is no longer here.”

Samuel Brohl did not stir.  “You did not hear me,” continued Camille.  “You are superb, M. le Comte; you are very handsome; your attitude is irreproachable, and you might well be taken for a dead person.  You fell admirably; I swear I never saw at the theatre a more successful fainting-fit; but spare yourself further trouble for the performance.  I repeat, Mlle. Moriaz is no longer here.”

Samuel Brohl remained inert and rigid.

“Perhaps you want to try the strength of my wrists,” continued Camille.  “Very well, I will give you that satisfaction.”

And, with these words, he seized him round his waist, summoned all his strength in order to lift him, and deposited him at full length on the sofa.

He examined him again, and said:  “Will this tragi-comedy last much longer?  Shall I not find a secret to resuscitate you?  Listen to me, monsieur.  I love with all my soul the woman that you pretend to love.  Does that not suffice?  Monsieur, you are a Polish adventurer, and I have as much admiration for your social talents as I have little esteem for yourself.  Does that not suffice yet?  I would not, however, lift my hand to you.  I entreat you to consider the affront received.”