He was astonished at the state of perfect felicity into which these few days of indulgence had plunged him. His painful jealousy, his legitimate anger, his feelings of degradation—all had passed away since Colette had acted in accordance with his wishes and closed her door to Salvaney. This would not last, he knew full well, but the presence of this woman was to him such complete happiness that it allayed his fears for the future as it effaced his rancour for the past. He smoked his cigar slowly and peacefully, turning round every now and then to look at Colette through the open window as she sat in a cane rocking-chair, dressed in a Chinese gown of pink satin embroidered with gold—a duplicate of the one in her dressing-room at the theatre. Swinging herself to and fro, she slipped her dainty feet in and out of her embroidered morocco leather slippers, displaying, as she did so, a pair of pink silk stockings to match her dress.

The room in which she sat was filled with flowers. The walls were covered with souvenirs of an artist's life—water-colour drawings of scenes in the green-room, tambourines won in cotillons, photographs, and wreaths. A small white Angora kitten, with one eye blue and the other black, was lying on its back playing with a ball whilst Colette continued rocking herself—now smiling at Claude between the puffs at her Russian cigarette, now reading a newspaper she held in her hand, and all the time humming a charming ballad of Richepin's recently set to music by a foreign composer named Cabaner.

'One month flies by, another comes,
And time runs like a hare——'

'Mon Dieu!' murmured the writer as he listened to the couplets of the only poet of our time who has been able to compete successfully with the divine Chansons populaires—'these lines are very fine, the sky is very blue, my mistress is very pretty. To the deuce with analysis!'

The actress interrupted this placid soliloquy of her contented lover with a cry of alarm. She had risen from her chair and was holding the paper with a trembling hand. After having, according to her wont, looked over the contents of the third page, where the theatrical news are chronicled, she had turned to the second and then to the first. It was there she had just read what had so upset her, for she stammered, as she handed Claude the paper—

'It is horrible!'

Claude, terrified by her sudden and intense agitation, took the paper and read the following lines under the heading, 'Echos de Paris:'

'As we go to press we hear of an event that will cause much grief and consternation in the literary world. M. René Vincy, the successful author of the "Sigisbée," has made an attempt to commit suicide in his rooms in the Rue Coëtlogon by discharging a revolver in the region of his heart. In order to remove the fears of M. Vincy's numerous admirers, we hasten to add that the attempt will have no fatal results. Our sympathetic confrère is indeed grievously wounded, but the ball has been extracted, and the latest news are most reassuring. Much speculation is indulged in concerning the motive of this desperate act.'

'Colette!' cried Claude, 'it is you who killed him!'

'No, no!' moaned the actress wildly; 'it can't be. He won't die. You see, the paper says he is better. Don't say that! I should never forgive myself. How was I to know? I was so mad with you—you had behaved so cruelly that I would have done anything to be revenged. But you must go to him—run! Here is your hat, your gloves, your stick. Poor little René! I will send him some flowers; he was so fond of them. And do you think it is on account of that woman?'