For some time he sat looking at himself, thinking—less of himself, for once, than of the woman who had so easily accepted her dismissal. After all, the want of a scene had hurt his vanity. Could she be as weary of him as he was of her? Was there some other—to her? The night outside grew blacker. It lacked more than an hour to dawn. The candle-flames flickered in the darkness. The hour was dreary enough. It were as well to get to bed. De Bernis rose slowly, intending to finish his laggardly preparations for the night. He had not yet taken a step when there came a light, quivering knock on the door of the outer room, his salon. He stood perfectly still, listening. The knock was not repeated, however, and he decided that it had been a mistake. Ah! What was this? The handle of his bedroom door was being turned; the door was pushed slowly open. There, in the space, stood a slight figure, cloaked, hooded, and masked in black. Two white hands were raised to the stranger's face. The mask dropped to the floor.
"Victorine!" muttered the man.
"That goes without saying."
"Grand Dieu! Did you think that I expected you?"
"Why not?" The lips parted slightly, and he caught a gleam of teeth. "You could not have imagined that that—at the ball—was the last?"
"So I did think. Well, what do you come for?"
"Not that tone, please. You have no right to use it—to me."
"What do you come for?"
She made a sound in her throat which he took for a laugh. Afterwards, shivering slightly, she moved nearer to him, and at sight of her face he started back into an attitude of defence. He would have repeated his question, when suddenly she answered it.
"You gave me to-night. 'After to-night,' you said. Well, it is not morning yet. We shall finish to-night."