except the scene with Aurore.
That was omitted.

I hesitated for some time whether I should let her know _who_ her
overseer was. When she should ascertain that he was the fellow who had
wounded me on the boat, and who but for me would have taken away her
chances of safety, I felt certain she would insist upon getting rid of
him at all risks.

For a moment I reflected upon the consequences. "She will never be
safe," thought I, "with such a ruffian at her side. Better for her to
make stand at once." Under this belief I boldly came out with the
information.

She seemed astounded, and clasping her hands, remained for some moments
in an attitude of mute agony. At length she cried out--

"Gayarre--Gayarre! it is you, Monsieur Gayarre! Oh! _mon Dieu! mon
Dieu_! Where is my father? where is Antoine? God have mercy upon me!"

The expression of grief upon her lovely countenance went to my heart.
She looked an angel of sorrow, sad but beautiful.

I interrupted her with consolatory phrases of the ordinary kind. Though
I could only guess the nature of her sorrow, she listened to me
patiently, and I fancied that what I said gave her pleasure.

Taking courage from this, I proceeded to inquire more particularly the
cause of her grief. "Mademoiselle," said I, "you will pardon the
liberty I am taking; but for some time I have observed, or fancied, that
you have a cause of--of--unhappiness--"

She fixed her eyes upon me in a gaze of silent wonder. I hesitated a
moment under this strange regard, and then continued--

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I speak too boldly; I assure you my
motive--"

"Speak on, Monsieur!" she said, in a calm sad voice.

"I noticed this the more, because when I first had the pleasure of
seeing you, your manner was so very different--in fact, quite the
reverse--"

A sigh and a sad smile were the only reply. These interrupted me for
but a moment, and I proceeded:--

"When first observing this change, Mademoiselle, I attributed it to
grief for the loss of your faithful servitor and friend."

Another melancholy smile.

"But the period of sorrowing for such a cause is surely past, and yet--"

"And yet you observe that I am still sad?"

"Just so, Mademoiselle."

"True, Monsieur; it is even so."

"I have ceased therefore to regard that as the cause of your melancholy;
and have been forced to think of some other--"

The gaze of half surprise, half interrogation, that now met mine, cause