so, here I am. Everything else
may fail you--your dearest friends may basely desert you; but here am I.
Whatever your plans may be--whether you have decided to leave Europe or
to remain in Paris to watch for your hour of vengeance, you will need
a faithful, trusty companion--a confidant--and here I am! Wife,
friend, sister--I will be which ever you desire. I am yours--yours
unconditionally.'" And as if in reply to a gesture of surprise which
escaped the magistrate, she added: "He is unhappy--I am free--I love
him!"

The magistrate was struck dumb with astonishment. He knew that she
would surely do what she said; he had realized that she was one of those
generous, heroic women who are capable of any sacrifice for the man they
love--a woman who would never shrink from what she considered to be
her duty, who was utterly incapable of weak hesitancy or selfish
calculation.

"Fortunately, my dear young lady, your devotion will no doubt be
useless," he said at last.

"And why?"

"Because M. Ferailleur owes it to you, and, what is more, he owes it
to himself, not to accept such a sacrifice." Failing to understand his
meaning, she looked at him inquiringly. "You will forgive me, I trust,"
he continued, "if I warn you to prepare for a disappointment. Innocent
or guilty, M. Ferailleur is--disgraced. Unless something little short of
a miracle comes to help him, his career is ended. This is one of those
charges--one of those slanders, if you prefer that term, which a man can
never shake off. So how can you hope that he will consent to link your
destiny to his?"

She had not thought of this objection, and it seemed to her a terrible
one. Tears came to her dark eyes, and in a despondent voice she
murmured: "God grant that he will not evince such cruel generosity. The
only great and true misfortune that could strike me now would be to have
him repel me. M. de Chalusse's death leaves me without means--without
bread; but now I can almost bless my poverty since it enables me to ask
him what would become of me if he abandoned me, and who would protect me
if he refused to do so. The brilliant career he dreamed of is ended, you
say. Ah, well! I will console him, and though we are unfortunate, we
may yet be happy. Our enemies are triumphant--so be it: we should only
tarnish our honor by stooping to contend against such villainy. But in
some new land, in America, perhaps, we shall be able to find some
quiet spot where we can begin a ne