“You’ve taken your price.  You’ve had your hour,” she told him.  Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched as if in a final struggle for self-restraint.

Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he crushed her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her throat.  He mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill responsive to his passion, and hiccoughed: 

“You’re mine again, all mine, and—­I’m mad about you.  I’m aflame.  This is like the night of our marriage, what?”

“Are you satisfied, now that you’ve made me suffer?  Do you still imagine I care for that foolish boy?”

“Phillips?  Bah!  A noisy swine.”  Again the Count chuckled, but this time his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until tears came to his eyes.

Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter.  Together they stood rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.

“He—­he tried to steal you—­from me.  From me.  Imagine it!  Then he struck me.  Well, where is he now, eh?”

“I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to—­do what you did.  To risk so much.”

“Risk?”

Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau’s cheek.  “Don’t pretend any longer.  I knew from the start.  But you were jealous.  When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it’s a sign she’s growing old and ugly and losing her fire.  She can face anything except that.”

“Fire!” Henri exclaimed.  “Parbleu!  Don’t I know you to be a volcano?”

“How did you manage the affair—­that fellow’s ruin?  It frightens me to realize that you can accomplish such things.”

The Count pushed his wife away.  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Oh, very well!  Carry it out if you wish,” she said, with a careless shrug.  “But you’re not fooling me in the least.  On the contrary, I admire your spirit.  Now then, I’m thirsty.  And you are, too.”  With a smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room.  She was back in a moment with a bottle and two glasses.  The latter she filled; her own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit.

In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and threatened to burst into flame.  Cunningly, persistently she played upon him, however.  She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him with her smiles, her fragrant charms.  Time and again he was upon the point of surrender, but caught himself in time.

She won at last.  She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a crapulent delight in repeating the details.  It was a tale distorted and confused, but the truth was there.  She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and remained out of the room for a long time.  When she returned it was to find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep.