She had thought to read the Sphynx, and it had its paw upon her.

Her exasperation was so keen that she determined to be revenged on both the speaker and Gratian, whose inferiority to the major was manifest.
"They shall see how _I_ can plot," she thought, "and best of all, how I carry off the prize which I need to obtain a station of my own selection in society." One thing she saw clearly, that Von Sendlingen was out of her clutches.
He still acknowledged her attractions, but he was obedient to a master more paramount.

If only he had been capable of jealousy! But, no, he had alluded to the Viscount de Terremonde's flame with perfect indifference.
Like Clemenceau, he would not have fought a duel for her choice.
Nevertheless, her husband might have another burst of the homicidal instinct which his father showed in Paris, and he in Germany.

While refusing a duel as illogical, he might fell Gratian after the model he had displayed for Major Von Sendlingen's profit in Munich.
Perhaps, though, Clemenceau was no longer jealous.
Hedwig had told her of letters addressed to Daniels which she had to mail, if Clemenceau was in correspondence with the old Jew, he would not have forgotten his daughter, the only woman of whom Cesarine harbored jealousy.
But she could attain her end, profound, treacherous and bloody, like the dream of a frivolous woman going to extremes.

The revelation of Von Sendlingen's presence enlightened her and filled the gap in her plan.
Meanwhile, she redoubled her efforts to entrance Gratian, and the day of their flight had but to be fixed.