a villainy, and the other part burned to leap upon the weeping woman, to beat her in his turn, to treat her with more barbarity than he had, just a little while before, at the carnival. Never had the extremes of his nature so contradicted each other. His feelings clashed with each other like contrary winds in a tempest.
The nudity of the two blonde adulteresses, surprised at Casti's restaurant, still trembled before his eyes and inflamed his blood.
"Why do you not quickly strip this quivering woman? Would you be less brave than the little violator of Pouderlée?" suggested the material side of his nature. "I shall find enough nobility of soul to love her better than Bergmans himself!" the other phase of his nature promised him. And he cherished no less generous and extravagant an idea than that of sacrificing himself in order to assure her of happiness by ridding both her and Antwerp of the damnable despoiler.
It was under the influence of this quixotic thought that he said to Gina, after a long silence during which he held her hands in his:
"You still love Bergmans, then?"
The accent of his voice betrayed so much sadness and affection that Gina looked at him. But she was amazed to find in his eyes the strange, wrecked expression she had already seen, one eventful day, in the orangery, and as he gripped her hands more tightly:
"Laurent!" she cried, trying to push him away, and not answering his question.
He, however, continued in his weak and breaking voice:
"Fear nothing from me, Gina. Think anything you
