the dark threaded air, the dripping streets; and he glorified it past all
daily radiance. His letter was a burning hymn to the day. His moral
grandeur on the day made him live as part of the splendour. Was it
possible for the woman who had seen him then to be faithless to him?
The swift deduction from his own feelings cleansed her of a suspicion
to the contrary, and he became lighthearted. He hummed an air when he
had finished his letter to her.

Councils with his adherents and couriers were held, and some were
despatched to watch the house and slip the letter to her maid; others
were told off to bribe and hound their way on the track of Clotilde.
His gold rained into their hands with the directions.

Colonel von Tresten was the friend of his attachment to the baroness;
a friend of both, and a warm one. Men coming into contact with Alvan
took their shape of friend or enemy sharply, for he was friend or enemy.
of no dubious feature, devoted to them he loved, and a battery on them he
opposed. The colonel had been the confidant of the baroness's grief over
this love-passion of Alvan's, and her resignation. He shared her doubts
of Clotilde's nobility of character: the reports were not favourable to
the young lady. But the baroness and he were of one opinion, that Alvan
in love was not likely to be governable by prudent counsel. He dropped a
word of the whispers of Clotilde's volatility.

Alvan nodded his perfect assent. 'She is that, she is anything you like;
you cannot exaggerate her for good or evil. She is matchless, colour her
as you please.' Adopting the tone of argument, he said: 'She writes that
letter. Well? It is her writing, and the moment, I am sure of it as
hers, I would not have it unwritten. I love it!' He looked maddish with
his love of the horrible thing, and resumed soberly: 'The point is, that