Florozonde was correct in her surmise--de Fronsac did half believe it,
and de Fronsac was accordingly much perturbed. Consider his dilemma!
The nature of his pursuits had demanded a love affair, and he had
endeavoured conscientiously to comply, for the man was nothing if not
an artist. But, as he had said to Pitou, he had loved so much, and so
many, that the thing was practically impossible for him, He was like
the pastrycook's boy who is habituated and bilious. Then suddenly a new
type, which he had despaired of finding, was displayed. His curiosity
awoke; and, fascinated in the first instance by her ghastly reputation,
he was fascinated gradually by her physical charms. Again he found
himself enslaved by a woman--and the woman, who owed her fame to his
services, was clearly appreciative. But he had a strong objection to
committing suicide.

His eagerness for her love was only equalled by his dread of what might
happen if she gave it to him. Alternately he yearned, and shuddered, On
Monday he cried, "Idiot, to be frightened by such blague!" and on
Tuesday he told himself, "All the same, there may be something in it!"
It was thus tortured that he paid his respects to Florozonde at the
theatre on the evening after she complained to her aunt. She was in her
dressing-room, making ready to go.

"You have danced divinely," he said to her. "There is no longer a
programme at La Coupole--there is only 'Florozonde.'"

She smiled the mysterious smile that she was cultivating. "What have
you been doing with yourself, monsieur? I have not seen you all the
week."

De Fronsac sighed expressively. "At my age one has the wisdom to avoid