Raoul dressed in frantic haste, prepared to forget his distress by flinging himself, as people say, into “the vortex of pleasure.” Alas, he was a very sorry guest and, leaving his brother early, found himself, by ten o’clock in the evening, in a cab, behind the Longchamp racecourse.

It was bitterly cold. The road seemed deserted and very bright under the moonlight. He told the driver to wait for him patiently at the corner of a near turning and, hiding himself as well as he could, stood stamping his feet to keep warm. He had been indulging in this healthy exercise for half an hour or so, when a carriage turned the corner of the road and came quietly in his direction, at a walking pace.

As it approached, he saw that a woman was leaning her head from the window. And, suddenly, the moon shed a pale gleam over her features.

“Christine!”