"Yes," she said, "it's pretty good. Upstairs and downstairs," she
sighed. "God sees to it."

"And by the by, who is that grey-headed murderer in a tall hat whom
I saw shepherding two girls into this house?"

She put on a candid air in which one could detect a little of her
peasant cunning.

"Oh, yes. They are two dancing girls at the Opera, sisters, as
different from each other as I and our poor Rita. But they are

both virtuous and that gentleman, their father, is very severe with
them. Very severe indeed, poor motherless things. And it seems to

be such a sinful occupation."
"I bet you make them pay a big rent, Therese. With an occupation

like that . . ."
She looked at me with eyes of invincible innocence and began to

glide towards the door, so smoothly that the flame of the candle
hardly swayed. "Good-night," she murmured.

"Good-night, Mademoiselle."
Then in the very doorway she turned right round as a marionette

would turn.
"Oh, you ought to know, my dear young Monsieur, that Mr. Blunt, the

dear handsome man, has arrived from Navarre three days ago or more.
Oh," she added with a priceless air of compunction, "he is such a

charming gentleman."
And the door shut after her.

CHAPTER IV
That night I passed in a state, mostly open-eyed, I believe, but

always on the border between dreams and waking. The only thing
absolutely absent from it was the feeling of rest. The usual

sufferings of a youth in love had nothing to do with it. I could
leave her, go away from her, remain away from her, without an added

pang or any augmented consciousness of that torturing sentiment of
distance so acute that often it ends by wearing itself out in a few

days. Far or near was all one to me, as if one could never get any
further but also never any nearer to her secret: the state like

that of some strange wild faiths that get hold of mankind with the
cruel mystic grip of unattainable perfection, robbing them of both

liberty and felicity on earth. A faith presents one with some
hope, though. But I had no hope, and not even desire as a thing

outside myself, that would come and go, exhaust or excite. It was
in me just like life was in me; that life of which a popular saying

affirms that "it is sweet." For the general wisdom of mankind will
always stop short on the limit of the formidable.

What is best in a state of brimful, equable suffering is that it
does away with the gnawings of petty sensations. Too far gone to

be sensible to hope and desire I was spared the inferior pangs of
elation and impatience. Hours with her or hours without her were

all alike, all in her possession! But still there are shades and I
will admit that the hours of that morning were perhaps a little

more difficult to get through than the others. I had sent word of
my arrival of course. I had written a note. I had rung the bell.

Therese had appeared herself in her brown garb and as monachal as
ever. I had said to her:

"Have this sent off at once."
She had gazed at the addressed envelope, smiled (I was looking up

at her from my desk), and at last took it up with an effort of
sanctimonious repugnance. But she remained with it in her hand

looking at me as though she were piously gloating over something
she could read in my face.

"Oh, that Rita, that Rita," she murmured. "And you, too! Why are
you trying, you, too, like the others, to stand between her and the

mercy of God? What's the good of all this to you? And you such a
nice, dear, young gentleman. For no earthly good only making all

the kind saints in heaven angry, and our mother ashamed in her
place amongst the blessed."

"Mademoiselle Therese," I said, "vous etes folle."
I believed she was crazy. She was cunning, too. I added an

imperious: "Allez," and with a strange docility she glided out
without another word. All I had to do then was to get dressed and

wait till eleven o'clock.
The hour struck at last. If I could have plunged into a light wave

and been transported instantaneously to Dona Rita's door it would
no doubt have saved me an infinity of pangs too complex for

analysis; but as this was impossible I elected to walk from end to
end of that long way. My emotions and sensations were childlike

and chaotic inasmuch that they were very intense and primitive, and
that I lay very helpless in their unrelaxing grasp. If one could

have kept a record of one's physical sensations it would have been
a fine collection of absurdities and contradictions. Hardly

touching the ground and yet leaden-footed; with a sinking heart and
an excited brain; hot and trembling with a secret faintness, and

yet as firm as a rock and with a sort of indifference to it all, I
did reach the door which was frightfully like any other commonplace

door, but at the same time had a fateful character: a few planks
put together - and an awful symbol; not to be approached without

awe - and yet coming open in the ordinary way to the ring of the
bell.

It came open. Oh, yes, very much as usual. But in the ordinary
course of events the first sight in the hall should have been the

back of the ubiquitous, busy, silent maid hurrying off and already
distant. But not at all! She actually waited for me to enter. I

was extremely taken aback and I believe spoke to her for the first
time in my life.

"Bonjour, Rose."
She dropped her dark eyelids over those eyes that ought to have

been lustrous but were not, as if somebody had breathed on them the
first thing in the morning. She was a girl without smiles. She

shut the door after me, and not only did that but in the incredible
idleness of that morning she, who had never a moment to spare,

started helping me off with my overcoat. It was positively
embarrassing from its novelty. While busying herself with those

trifles she murmured without any marked intention:
"Captain Blunt is with Madame."

This didn't exactly surprise me. I knew he had come up to town; I
only happened to have forgotten his existence for the moment. I

looked at the girl also without any particular intention. But she
arrested my movement towards the dining-room door by a low,

hurried, if perfectly unemotional appeal:
"Monsieur George!"

That of course was not my name. It served me then as it will serve
for this story. In all sorts of strange places I was alluded to as

"that young gentleman they call Monsieur George." Orders came from
"Monsieur George" to men who nodded knowingly. Events pivoted

about "Monsieur George." I haven't the slightest doubt that in the
dark and tortuous streets of the old Town there were fingers

pointed at my back: there goes "Monsieur George." I had been
introduced discreetly to several considerable persons as "Monsieur

George." I had learned to answer to the name quite naturally; and
to simplify matters I was also "Monsieur George" in the street of

the Consuls and in the Villa on the Prado. I verify believe that
at that time I had the feeling that the name of George really

belonged to me. I waited for what the girl had to say. I had to
wait some time, though during that silence she gave no sign of

distress or agitation. It was for her obviously a moment of
reflection. Her lips were compressed a little in a characteristic,

capable manner. I looked at her with a friendliness I really felt
towards her slight, unattractive, and dependable person.

"Well," I said at last, rather amused by this mentalhesitation. I
never took it for anything else. I was sure it was not distrust.

She appreciated men and things and events solely in relation to
Dona Rita's welfare and safety. And as to that I believed myself

above suspicion. At last she spoke.
"Madame is not happy." This information was given to me not

emotionally but as it were officially. It hadn't even a tone of
warning. A mere statement. Without waiting to see the effect she