sess a
mother. A few moments' conversation now and then, the exchange of a few
letters, the pressure of a hand through the garden gate, and that is
all. Still, I have been guilty of a grave and irreparable fault: I have
disobeyed the one rule of my life--frankness; and I am cruelly punished
for doing so. I did not tell all this to M. de Chalusse--in fact, I
dared not. I was ashamed of my cowardice; from day to day I vowed that
I would confess everything, and yet I procrastinated. I said to myself
every night, 'It shall be done to-morrow; but when the morrow came I
said, 'I will give myself another day--just one more day.' Indeed, my
courage failed me when I thought of the count's aristocratic prejudices;
and besides, I knew how ambitious he was for my future. On the other
hand, moreover, Pascal was always pleading: 'Don't speak now. My
circumstances are constantly improving. The day is not far off when I
shall be able to offer you wealth and fame. When that day comes I will
go to your guardian and ask him for your hand; but in Heaven's name
don't speak now.' I understood Pascal's motives well enough. The count's
immense fortune frightened him, and he feared that he would be accused
of being a fortune-hunter. So I waited, with that secret anguish which
still haunts those who have been unhappy even when their present is
peaceful, and their future seems bright. I kept my secret, saying to
myself that such happiness was not meant for me, that it would soon take
flight.

"It took flight all too soon. One morning I heard a carriage draw up
outside our door, and the next moment the Count de Chalusse entered
the sitting-room. 'Everything is ready to receive you at the Hotel de
Chalusse, Marguerite,' said he, 'come!' He ceremoniously offered me his
arm, and I accompanied him. I could not even leave a message for Pascal,
for I had never made a confidante of Madame Leon. Still, a faint hope
sustained me. I thought that the precautions taken by M. de Chalusse
would somewhat dispel the uncertainty of my position, and furnish me at
least with some idea of the vague danger which threatened me. But no.
His efforts, so far as I could discover, had been confined to changing
his servants. Our life in this grand house was the same as it had been
at Cannes--even more secluded, if that were possible. The count had aged
considerably. It was evident that he was sinking beneath the burden
of some ever-present sorrow. 'I am condemning you to a c