give him battle. He is disappointed. He had counted upon her surprise and confusion, and he feels that he has lost a point in his game. She does not speak, but stands quietly waiting for him to address her, as she might were he an ordinary visitor.
"She is a more wonderful woman than I thought," he says to himself, "and the battle will be a sharp one. No matter! The victory will be so much the sweeter."
He removes his hat, and the light falls full upon his pale fair face. Something in that face, she cannot tell what, seems in a faint, dim manner, familiar to her—she has seen some one like this man, but when, or where, she cannot remember.
"You are surprised, madame, to see me," he says, for he feels that he must begin the attack, and that he must not spare a single blow, for he is to fight with one who can parry his thrusts and strike again. "You are surprised. You command yourself admirably in repressing any demonstration of surprise, but you are not the less surprised."
"I am certainly surprised, monsieur, at receiving any visitor at such an hour." She says this with perfect composure.
"Scarcely, madame," he looks at the timepiece; "for in five minutes from this your husband will—or should—be here."
Her lips tighten, and her jaw grows rigid in spite of herself. The secret is known, then—known to this stranger, who dares to intrude himself upon her on the strength of this knowledge.
"Monsieur," she says, "people rarely insult Valerie de Cevennes with impunity. You shall hear from my uncle to-morrow morning; for to-night—" she lays her hand upon the mother-of-pearl handle of a little bell; he stops her, saying, smilingly,
"Nay, madame, we are not playing a farce. You wish to show me the door? You would ring that bell, which no one can answer but Finette, your maid, since there is no one else in this charming little establishment. I shall not be afraid of Finette, even if you are so imprudent as to summon her; and I shall not leave you till you have done me the honour of granting me an interview. For the rest, I am not talking to Valerie de Cevennes, but to Valerie de Lancy; Valerie, the wife of Elvino; Valerie, the lady of Don Giovanni."
De Lancy is the name of the fashionable tenor. This time the haughty girl's thin lips quiver, with a rapid, convulsive movement. What stings her proud soul is the contempt with which this man speaks of her husband. Is it such a disgrace, then, this marriage of wealth, rank, and beauty, with genius and art?
"Monsieur," she says, "you have discovered my secret. I have been betrayed either by my servant, or the priest who married me—no matter which of them is the traitor. You, who, from your conduct of to-night, are evidently an adventurer, a
