"But you brought her to Madame Marsy's this evening?"
"Oh! her uncle accompanied us, but I was there."
"You offer your arm then to a woman whom, as you have just told me, you consider dangerous?"
"Not for Sabine!—and then, that is a drop of the absinthe, a little of the hasheesh of which I spoke to you. One sees only concessions in Paris, and even when one is dead, one needs a further concession, but in perpetuity. One only becomes one's self"—and Guy's jesting tone became serious,—"when a worthy fellow like you puts one a question that seems terribly like asking advice. Then one answers him, as I have just answered you, and cries out to him: 'Beware!'"
"I thank you," said Rosas, suddenly stopping short on the pavement. "You treat me like a true friend."
"And if I seem to you to be too severe," added Lissac, smiling, "charge that to the account of bitterness. A man that has loved a woman is never altogether just toward her. If he has ceased to love her, he slights her, if he still loves her, he slanders her. I have perhaps, traduced Marianne, but I have not slighted you, that is certain. Now, take advantage of this gossip. But when?"
"I don't know," replied the duke. "I will write you. I shall perhaps leave Paris!"
"What is that?"
"Just what I say."
"The deuce!" said Lissac. "Do you know that if you were to fly from the danger in question, I should be very uneasy? It would be very serious."