that they were always thirsty. They smoked more than they ate, and
whispered more, if no men were present, than they smoked. But then, men
were seldom absent.

The night previous, Ambroise recalled the fact, she had not come in with
a different set. This was not her custom, and he worried over it.
Protected by princes and financiers, she nevertheless loved her liberty
so much that one seldom caught her in the same company twice in
succession. For this singular caprice Aholibah, oftener called the Woman
from Morocco,--because she had lived in Algiers,--was the despair of her
circle. Why, argued the other birds, why fly in the face of luck? To be
sure, she was still young, still beautiful, with that sort of metallic
beauty which reminded Ambroise of some priceless bronze blackened in the
sun. She was meagre, diabolically graceful, dark, with huge saucer-like
eyes that greedily drank in her surroundings. But her lashes were long,
and she could veil her glance so that her brilliant face looked as if
the shutters had been closed on her soul. Across her brows a bar of
blue-black marked the passage of her eyebrows--which sable line was
matched by her abundant hair, worn in overshadowing clusters. She
dressed winter and summer in scarlet, and her stage name was
Aholibah--bestowed upon her by some fantastic poet who had not read
Ezekiel, but Swinburne. It was rumoured by her intimates that her real
name was Clotilde Durval, that her mother had been a seamstress....

With a sinking at the heart Ambroise saw her enter in the company of the
same gentleman she had brought the previous evening. The garçon did not
analyze this strange, jealous feeling, for he was too busily employed in
seating his guests and relieving the man of his hat and walking-stick.
An insolent chap it was, with his air of an assured conqueror and the
easy bearing of wealth. There was little discussion as to the order--a