Like the great CondÉ, on the eve of the battle of Rocroy, Dora slept peacefully and profoundly on the eve of the day that was to see her play the rÔle of hostess for the first time in her new house in Belgravia.

She was careful not to tire herself during the day, in order to feel fresh and alert at half-past nine, the hour at which the guests would begin to arrive.

For a mistress of a house, for a novice especially, a reception of this kind is a severe trial. She stands four mortal hours at the entrance of the drawing-room, all the while on the qui-vive. She would like to possess a hundred pairs of eyes instead of one, to assure herself that everything is going as smoothly as she could wish, for the least little contretemps will spoil the party. Out of four hundred people who accept an invitation, two hundred come to criticise—some the music, others the supper, others the wines, others the dresses. If there is the slightest hitch in the proceedings, there are whispered comments on it. If the music is bad, people drown it with their voices; if the supper is of doubtful quality, they go early; if the servants do not number the hats carefully, the men, on leaving, choose the best that come to their notice; if the hostess is embarrassed, they smile. If the women meet people whom they have ceased to know, they look bored. The most thankless task in the world is giving a large "At home." I know many women who, after giving such parties, have to go to bed for a couple of days.

Dora dined lightly at seven o'clock, and, after giving her last instructions, went to dress. At nine o'clock she was ready. Her white dress of exquisite material, trimmed with old lace and silver embroidery, suited her to perfection, and set off every line of her supple figure. She seemed to be moulded in it. She wore a riviÈre of diamonds and emeralds, and three magnificent diamond stars were fastened on her bodice. Philip had given her these diamonds, to console her for the portrait that he had not had the courage to finish. She would have infinitely preferred the portrait, but she accepted the jewels willingly, and, thanking her husband prettily, she said to herself, "When the shell bursts, its pieces will be useful. I shall at any rate have a couple of thousand pounds with which to face the situation." She wore no ornament in her hair, which seemed to be proud of being entrusted alone with the task of showing off her beautiful pure Madonna-like face. Never had a lovelier head, framed in luxuriant tresses, been placed more proudly on classical shoulders. Her beauty was dazzling.

She went into the drawing-room to give a last glance at the decorations. Everything looked perfect.

Notwithstanding the air of calm and simple dignity that she wore, like all who have the knowledge of their own worth and who know their triumph is assured, those who had examined Dora's expression attentively would have discovered a new anxiety depicted on her countenance, perhaps nothing very important, but nevertheless an annoyance at the least.

General Ivan Sabaroff, Russian War Minister, was in London. Philip had invited him to Dora's party, and he had accepted. Philip told his wife this at dinner.

Dora sat down in the drawing-room with a cloud on her brow.

"Sabaroff!" she said to herself, "General Sabaroff! What if it be the Colonel Sabaroff that I met eight years ago at Monte Carlo? He was already much talked about. To-day he is the Russian Minister of War—it is quite possible, even probable; but then? See the man again! Oh no, never! And yet, I shall be obliged to receive him—I shall warn Philip that he had a detestable reputation with women, and if that does not suffice, well—I will tell Philip everything. And why shouldn't I? The confession will not be very painful, and I have often been on the point of making it. I have made up my mind—I will not, and I cannot meet this man. I will be polite to him to-night, but very distant; of course, I know what is expected of me as hostess. After that I hope there will be an end of it."

This resolution seemed to clear away the clouds from her face. She smiled eagerly at her husband when he came gaily into the drawing-room.

"Everything is ready and admirably arranged," said Philip. "The drawing-room is decorated with such taste! Ah, my dearest, it is easy to see you have had a hand in the arrangements. I recognise your touch in a thousand little details. Your party will be a huge success—the rooms will look splendid, the music will be excellent, the supper first-rate, and we shall have a regular crowd of celebrities and pretty women—it will be a triumph! And you, darling—how beautiful you look to-night! that gown suits you to perfection. I wish I was going to have you all to myself."

"How absurd! nothing would have been easier, if you had only expressed the wish," said she, a little piqued.

There are many men who are on the point of falling in love with their wives when they see them near to making the conquest of a crowd of outsiders.

"And those diamonds," continued he, "how splendid they look on you! You were built to wear a diadem, that's your style. At last you are playing your proper rÔle, and I am proud to see you doing the honours of a house that is worthy of you. When I come to think of it, fortune has been very kind to me."

On seeing Dora quite unmoved, he added—

"Really, one would think, to look at you, that all this does not stir you to the least enthusiasm: it's curious! sometimes I can't quite make you out. I am nearly beside myself with delight. Now, listen a moment," said he, taking her hand. "I am negotiating with Russia. If they take my invention, as I have every hope that they will, my ambition will be satisfied, my wildest dreams realised. I shall be rich. You know we are not really rich. It costs a perfect fortune to keep this house going. Ah, but only let General Sabaroff approve of my shell, and, dearest,—we are all right."

He rubbed his hands with joy.

"Philip," said Dora, "I want to speak to you about this General Sabaroff."

"Yes, yes," said Philip, without heeding her; "I want you to charm him. You must make a conquest of him. Bring all your diplomacy to bear. He has an immense influence at the Russian Court, and is, I hear, the favourite Minister of the Czar. Being Minister of War, he is the master, the autocrat of his department. And, darling, I count on you to help me. I repeat to you, everything depends on him."

"Money again, Philip, always money," replied Dora. "Are you not rich enough yet? If we have not the income to keep a house like this, why do we live in it? Why should we live beyond our means? I don't think it is right, Philip. What has become of those happy days when we loved each other so much, and when you thought only of your art? Ah, give me back my dear studio."

"I am not rich enough yet," said Philip, "but I am perhaps on the road that leads to fortune."

"You were rich before, and on the road to fame. I loved an artist and I adored his art."

"Oh, deuce take art and artists," cried Philip, getting angry.

"Philip, how can you? If you only knew how it pains me to hear you speak like that."

"Well, my dear Dora," said Philip, "there are times at which I can scarcely keep my patience with you—you don't interest yourself in me as you used to do."

"Is it really you who dare speak to me in that way?" exclaimed Dora indignantly. "Is it you who accuse me of not being the same, you who consecrated your life to art and to my happiness, and who to-day think of nothing but making money, like the first City man in the street? There are times when I long to go and earn my own living with my brush. The only thing that holds me back is Eva—you too, perhaps, for I am certain that one of these days you will cry 'Help!' and I shall have to rescue you from drowning."

"You are ungrateful, Dora. It is for you that I work."

"For me? But can't you see I loathe the life I lead? For me? When the thirst for wealth gets hold of a man, he has always the same excuse—it is not for himself. It is even the eternal parrot-cry of the miser; if he holds fast to his money, it is for the children; and under this pretext he renders his wife, his children, and everyone around him as miserable as he is himself."

"Night and day," said Philip, "I have worked, and God is my witness that in working all my thoughts were for you. Now that I am almost at the goal, you turn against me—you refuse to give a smile to the man who can realise all my hopes."

"Ah, why do you choose that one?" said Dora, frowning.

"What a funny remark!" said Philip. "Just as if he was my choice."

Then, looking at Dora, who seemed agitated, he added—

"What do you mean?"

"I have been told that General Sabaroff is a libertine, a rouÉ of the worst type, and you know what a detestation I have of such men."

"Let him be what he likes; what on earth does it matter to me?" exclaimed Philip. "Really, Dora, you can help me with a few smiles; ask him to come and see you on one of your Thursdays, without compromising yourself, and without your virtue running any danger. It ought to be easy enough for a woman to protect her virtue against a man—in a drawing-room," added Philip, with a slightly mocking air which intensely displeased Dora.

"Yes, much easier than protecting one's reputation against women. I hope you will not insist. I shall receive the General politely, that goes without saying, but I shall certainly not ask him to come and see me on the days I receive or the days on which I do not receive."

Philip and Dora looked at each other for a few seconds. They seemed both very determined.

"And suppose I insist," said Philip, who was the first to break the silence, "and, what is more, suppose I expect you to do what I wish?"

"In that case," said Dora, "since there is no other way of obtaining your indulgence, stay a moment and listen to me."

Philip looked at the clock.

"There is plenty of time," continued Dora, "we have nearly half an hour before anyone will come. My dear Philip, I have every reason to believe that this General Sabaroff is no stranger to me. Perhaps I should have told you this before, but when I have been on the point of doing so, I always said to myself, 'What is the use?' and I really did not see the need of it. This is the incident in two words. When I was nineteen, just out of the schoolroom, my aunt took me to winter in the Riviera. Among the many people we met there was a Colonel Sabaroff, a man of about thirty-five. From the first he paid me marked attention, and at the end of two months he made me an offer of marriage. He was handsome, clever, say fascinating if you like, had the reputation of being a brilliant officer, and was much sought after in society. I, a mere child, could not but feel flattered at his choice of me. What my answer might have been—I had asked for a week to consider it—I can scarcely tell, although my heart, I can say in all sincerity, was not touched. A bal masquÉ was to be held that week and my aunt had subscribed to it, but she disliked public balls, and it had been decided that we were not to go, especially as she thought it hardly proper for two women alone to be present at such a ball. You know, my aunt was then still young and pretty. However, my uncle, arriving from England on the day of the ball, persuaded her to let him take me, for he guessed at my eagerness to go, and he assured her that if he came with me, the strictest British propriety would be satisfied. When we reached the ball, it was already late. After making a tour of the rooms, we sat down in a dimly lit conservatory, and I was just going to tell him of the offer of marriage I had received, when I started at hearing Colonel Sabaroff's voice in low but fierce altercation with that of a woman. Both were masked, and the language they spoke in was French, which was unintelligible to my uncle. Signing to him to keep silence, I listened intently. My own future was decided in those few minutes. But what need I tell you more except that I, a girl ignorant of all the world's falseness and ugly coarseness, sat dumfounded, petrified, as the history of a vulgar liaison was unfolded to my young ears, and the man who had asked for my hand and heart flung off a wretched woman who, to her own undoing, had given herself to him a year before."

"What did you do?" asked Philip.

"I sat spellbound as long as their conversation lasted; but when they rose and passed in front of us, I removed my mask, looked the man straight in the face, and, in as steady a voice as I could command, asked my uncle to take me home."

"Did you see any more of him after that?"

"No—the next day, at my request, we left Monte Carlo. During several months I received letters from him, all of which I tore up without reading, and soon, thank God, I ceased to know whether he existed or not."

"Perhaps it is he who sends the pansies," said Philip.

"Don't talk nonsense," replied Dora.

"But General Sabaroff may not be the man at all."

"I feel sure he must be," said Dora. "The description I have been giving of him corresponds perfectly. Philip, if it should be so, you won't throw me into the society of this man, will you? You won't ask me to make him welcome here?"

A servant came into the room to say that the decorations in the dining-room were finished, and to ask whether Dora would go and give a look to them before the florist left the house.

"Very well," said she to the servant, "I will go."

And, smiling at Philip, she said to him—

"It is understood, then,—you will not insist any more, Philip."

"Curious tricks Fate plays us all!" exclaimed Philip when Dora had gone. "One would think the devil had a hand in it."

It was half-past nine; nobody was likely to come before ten o'clock. He went downstairs to the library and asked for a glass of fine champagne and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised, to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes. His behaviour had assumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the attack he was vanquished.

Philip was unhappy, in spite of the gaiety he forced himself to assume; within him was a mortal sadness.

He swallowed his drink, sat down, and began to think over what Dora had said to him.

"Suppose," thought he, "that General Sabaroff should turn out to be Dora's old admirer. Well, what then? He must have forgotten her long ago—she never had any love for him—not even a school-girl's love. Where is the danger? She has a painful recollection of him; but she is no longer a child, she is a woman of the world. Why should she not conquer her antipathy for him and make use of a little diplomacy to render me a service? I must absolutely get General Sabaroff's approval. Everything depends on that. But, what if he should not have forgotten her, if he still loves her? He would not feel disposed to place a fortune in my hands. Stay, though, perhaps he would, on the contrary, to please Dora. Another reason why she should be amiable to him" ...

His evil genius urged him on.

"It's decided," said he; "whatever it may cost, I must have the man's approbation of my shell—and I must have that money to be rich—really rich. Yes, my dear father, I shall be wealthy, and I will prove to you that it is possible to make a fortune without being your slave."

His spirits brightened considerably, and, rubbing his hands cheerfully, he strode up and down the room exultantly, perfectly convinced that he had formed a resolution which would turn out to his advantage.

"Suppose I should succeed! Well, of course I shall succeed. I must, something tells me I shall, I will. Yes, this man Sabre-off or Sabre-on must be made much of. As to Dora,—with some wives it might be a risky experiment, but with her,—why, I should as soon think of doubting my own existence as of doubting her! 'Oh, my darling!'" said he aloud, taking up a photograph of Dora and kissing it, "'forgive me for having had such a thought, and still more for having expressed it.' Yes, she must receive this man smilingly whether he turns out to be a Sir Galahad or not. I have gone too far to draw back now. It's annoying all the same—pity there is so much sentimental nonsense in even the best of women, and Dora is one out of ten thousand."

The final chords of a pianoforte solo reached his ears, followed by loud applause.

"By Jove," said he, "I was nearly forgetting all about the party."

He hurriedly left the library and went upstairs to the drawing-room.