man's whole existence in which good and evil join issue and rage and
struggle for the mastery, even then she would not have understood. She
might have found that one end was aimed at more constantly than any
other--self, yet in the schemes of most men self plays the most
prominent part, and is not always sordid and altogether despicable. She
would not have understood her lover; he did not understand himself. He
was a product of the Revolution, as were thousands of others walking the
Paris streets, or busy with villainies in country places; character was
complex by force of circumstances, which, under other conditions, might
have been simple and straightforward. With some a certain
straightforwardness remained, not always directed to wrong ends. It was
so in Lucien Bruslart. It was not easy for him to be a scoundrel, and
self was not always master. Even with Pauline Vaison in his arms he
thought of Jeanne St. Clair, and shuddered at the way he had spoken of
her to this woman. What would happen if Jeanne came to Paris? For a
moment the horrible possibilities seemed to paralyze every nerve and
thought. He spoke no word, he did not cease his caressing, yet the woman
suddenly released herself as though his train of thought exerted a
subtle influence over her, and stood before him again, not angrily, yet
with a look in her eyes which was a warning. So an animal looks when
danger may be at hand.

"If you were to deceive me," she said, in a low voice, almost in a
whisper, the sound of a hiss in it.

"Deceive you?"

It was not easily said, but a question only half comprehended, as when
one is recalled from a reverie suddenly, or awakes from a dream at a
touch.