"They shall see how _I_ can plot," she thought, "and best of all, how I
carry off the prize which I need to obtain a station of my own selection
in society."

One thing she saw clearly, that Von Sendlingen was out of her clutches.
He still acknowledged her attractions, but he was obedient to a master
more paramount. If only he had been capable of jealousy! But, no, he had
alluded to the Viscount de Terremonde's flame with perfect indifference.
Like Clemenceau, he would not have fought a duel for her choice.
Nevertheless, her husband might have another burst of the homicidal
instinct which his father showed in Paris, and he in Germany. While
refusing a duel as illogical, he might fell Gratian after the model he
had displayed for Major Von Sendlingen's profit in Munich.

Perhaps, though, Clemenceau was no longer jealous.

Hedwig had told her of letters addressed to Daniels which she had to
mail, if Clemenceau was in correspondence with the old Jew, he would not
have forgotten his daughter, the only woman of whom Césarine harbored
jealousy.

But she could attain her end, profound, treacherous and bloody, like the
dream of a frivolous woman going to extremes. The revelation of Von
Sendlingen's presence enlightened her and filled the gap in her plan.

Meanwhile, she redoubled her efforts to entrance Gratian, and the day of
their flight had but to be fixed. On hearing from Madame Clemenceau
that Von Sendlingen was the chief of surveillance at the coterie, the
dread that he was his rival in the contest for Césarine, filled his cup
to overflowing with disgust. He had believed himself chief of the