sinister apprehension when they have to brave the chance of a misfortune
absolutely merited. The remembrance of the soothsayer's prediction
suddenly occurred to Lydia. She uttered another cry, rubbing her hands
like a somnambulist. She saw her brother's blood flowing.... No, the
duel should not take place! But how to prevent it? How-how? she
repeated. Florent was not at home. She could, therefore, not implore
him. If he should return, would there still be time? Lincoln was not at
home. Where was he? Perhaps at a rendezvous with Madame Steno.

The image of that handsome idol of love clasped in the painter's arms,
plunged in the abyss of intoxication which her ardent letters described,
was presented to the mind of the jealous wife. What irony to perceive
thus those two lovers, whom she had wished to strike, with the ecstacy of
bliss in their eyes! Lydia would have liked to tear out their eyes, his
as well as hers, and to trample them beneath her heel. A fresh flood of
hatred filled her heart. God! how she hated them, and with what a
powerless hatred! But her time would come; another need pressed sorely
--to prevent the meeting of the following day, to save her brother. To
whom should she turn, however? To Dorsenne? To Montfanon? To Baron
Hafner? To Peppino Ardea? She thought by turns of the four personages
whose almost simultaneous visits had caused her to believe that they were
the seconds of the two champions. She rejected them, one after the
other, comprehending that none of them possessed enough authority to
arrange the affair. Her thoughts finally reverted to Florent's
adversary, to Boleslas Gorka, whose wife was her friend and whom she had
always found so courteous. What if she should ask him to spare her
brother? It was not Florent against whom the discarded lover bore a
grudge. Would he not be touched by her tears? Would he not tell her
what had led to the quarrel and what she should ask of her brother that
the quarrel might be conciliated? Could she not obtain from him the