their harnesses. Evidently the Countess and Alba were in the studio for
a long sitting. What had Boleslas learned that he did not already know?
Was he not ridiculous, standing upon the sidewalk of the square in the
centre of which rose the ruin of an antique reservoir, called, for a
reason more than doubtful, the trophy of Marius. With one glance the
young man took in this scene--the empty victoria turning in the opposite
direction, the large square, the ruin, the row of high houses, his cab.
He appeared to himself so absurd for being there to spy out that of which
he was only too sure, that he burst into a nervous laugh and reentered
his cab, giving his own address to the cabman: Palazzetto Doria, Place de
Venise. The cab that time started off leisurely, for the man
comprehended that the mad desire to arrive hastily no longer possessed
his fare. By a sudden metamorphosis, the swift Roman steed became a
common nag, and the vehicle a heavy machine which rumbled along the
streets. Boleslas yielded to depression, the inevitable reaction of an
excess of violence such as he had just experienced. His composure could
not last. The studio, in which was Madame Steno, began to take a clear
form in the jealous lover's mind in proportion as he drove farther from
it. In his thoughts he saw his former mistress walking about in the
framework of tapestry, armor, studies begun, as he had frequently seen
her walking in his smoking-room, with the smile upon her lips of an
amorous woman, touching the objects among which her lover lives. He saw
impassive Alba, who served as chaperon in the new intrigue of her
mother's with the same naivete she had formerly employed in shielding
their liaison. He saw Maitland with his indifferent glance of the day
before, the glance of a preferred lover, so sure of his triumph that he
did not even feel jealous of the former lover.

The absolute tranquillity of one who replaces us in an unfaithful
mistress's affections augments our fury still more if we have the