But I know you, my man,
and for all your fine motto, so insolently displayed on your envelopes,
on your seal, your cuff-buttons, your hat-buckles and the panels of your
carriages, I always see the knave that you are, showing everywhere
around the edges of your disguise."

Her voice hissed between her clenched teeth with an indescribably savage
intonation; and Paul expected some frantic outburst on the part of
Jenkins, rebelling against such a storm of insults. But no. That
exhibition of hatred and contempt on the part of the woman he loved
evidently caused him more sorrow than anger; for he answered low, in a
tone of heart-broken gentleness:--

"Ah! you are cruel. If you knew how you hurt me! Hypocrite, yes, it is
true; but a man isn't born that way, he becomes so perforce, in face of
the harsh vicissitudes of life. When you have the wind against you and
want to go ahead, you tack. I tacked. Charge it to my miserable
beginnings, to an unsuccessful entrance on the stage, and agree at least
that one thing in me has never lied: my passion! Nothing has succeeded
in repelling it, neither your contempt, nor your insults, nor all that
I read in your eyes, which have never once smiled on me in all these
years. And it is my passion which gives me strength, even after what I
have just heard, to tell you why I am here. Listen. You informed me one
day that you needed a husband, some one to watch over you while you were
at work, to relieve poor, worn-out Crenmitz from sentry duty. Those were
your own words, which tore my heart then because I was not free. Now
everything is changed. Will you marry me, Felicia?"

"What about your wife?" cried the girl, while Paul asked himself the
same question.

"My wife is dead."

"Dead? Madame Jenkins? Is that true?"

"You never knew the one to whom I refer. The other was not my wife. When
I met her, I was already married, in Ireland. Years ago. A horrible
marriage, entered into with a rope around my neck. My dear, at
twenty-five this alternative was presented to me: imprisonment for debt
or Miss Strang, a pimply-faced, gouty old maid, the sister of a
money-lender who had advanced me five hundred francs to pay for my
medical studies. I preferred the jail; but weeks and months of it
exhausted my courage and I married Miss Strang, who brought me as her
dowry--my note of hand. You can imagine what my life was between those
two monsters who adored each other. A jealous, sterile wife. The brothe