But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. It is a precaution merely. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. "I see him!—row for your life!" "That's the way to miss him, master," replied Ben coolly. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily.
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