She slowly mounted the stairs; on her way up she encountered a servant, who informed her that Mlle. Galet was lying down taking a nap, being somewhat indisposed, but that the key was in the door.  The apartment of which Mlle. Moriaz was in quest was composed of three rooms, a vestibule serving as a kitchen, a tiny salon, and a bed-chamber.  She paused a few moments in the vestibule to regain her breath, to gather together all her courage, to compose her mind; she had at once divined that there was some one in the salon.  She entered; Mlle. Galet was not there, but he was there, the man whom she had come to seek.  Apparently, he awaited the awakening of the mistress of the place.  In perceiving the woman whom he had sworn never to see again, he trembled violently, and his eyes sought some loophole of escape; there was none.  Standing upon the threshold, Antoinette barred the passage.  She looked fixedly at him and felt certain of her victory; he had the air of one vanquished, and his defeat resembled a complete routing.

She crossed her arms, she smiled, and, in a firm, half-mocking tone, said: 

“So this is the way you rob me of my poor people!  They flourish under it, I am well aware.  Confess now that there is a little hypocrisy in your virtue.  Mlle. Galet never for a moment doubted that these famous camellias were given for my sake.  Bouquets costing sixty francs! absolute folly!  How you despise money!  Why, then, do you not despise mine?  You are afraid of it, you fear to burn your fingers by touching it.  You will not aid me to throw it out of the windows?  Your poor and mine will surely pick it up.  Say, will you not?  My fortune is not such a great affair; but it is certain that I alone do not suffice to spend it properly; there is plenty for two—­for two would really only be one.  You cannot consent to share it with me?  You are too proud—­that is it.  The day before yesterday you were playing comedy; you do not love me.  It costs little to owe something to those we love.”

He made a gesture of despair and cried: 

“I implore you, let me go!”

“Presently; I propose telling you first all that is in my mind.  I do not place much reliance on your boasted nobility of spirit; it is pride, egotistical pride.  Yes, your pride is your god—­a pitiful sort of a god!  And as to Poland—­” He winced at this word.  After a pause, Antoinette continued:  “It is she herself who will give, or rather lend, you to me.  I solemnly promise that if ever she has need of you I will say to her, ‘Here he is, take him’; and to you, yourself, I will say, ’She calls you—­go.’  But speak to me and look at me; you will not die of so doing.  Are you so very much afraid of me?  Come, have courage to repeat to me what you have said to others?”

He fell back into a chair, where he remained, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides, his head drooping on his breast, and he murmured: