a veil came over her eyes. She thought:

"We were so happy a moment ago. What has happened? And I was so pleased
at his joy, when it had already gone; it would be better not to write,
since letters show only vanished sentiments and effaced ideas."

She read further. And seeing that he was full of jealousy, she felt
discouraged.

"If I have not proved to him that I love him with all my strength, that
I love him with all there is in me, how am I ever to persuade him of
it?"

And she was impatient to discover the cause of his folly. Jacques
told it. While taking breakfast in the Rue Royale he had met a former
companion who had just returned from the seaside. They had talked
together; chance made that man speak of the Countess Martin, whom
he knew. And at once, interrupting the narration, Jacques exclaimed:
"Therese, Therese, why did you lie to me, since I was sure to learn some
day that of which I alone was ignorant? But the error is mine more than
yours. The letter which you put into the San Michele post-box, your
meeting at the Florence station, would have enlightened me if I had not
obstinately retained my illusions and disdained evidence.

"I did not know; I wished to remain ignorant. I did not ask you
anything, from fear that you might not be able to continue to lie; I
was prudent; and it has happened that an idiot suddenly, brutally, at a
restaurant table, has opened my eyes and forced me to know. Oh, now that
I know, now that I can not doubt, it seems to me that to doubt would be
delicious! He gave the name--the name which I heard at Fiesole from Miss
Bell, and he added: 'Everybody knows about that.'

"So you loved him. You love him still! He is near you, doubtless. He
goes every year to the Dinard races. I have been told so. I see him. I
see everything. If you knew the images that worry me, you would say, 'He
is mad,' and you would take pity on me. Oh, how I should like to forget
you and everything! But I can not. You know very well I can not forget
you except with you. I see you incessantly with him. It is torture. I
thought I was unfortunate that night on the banks of the Arno. But I did
not know then what it is to suffer. To-day I know."

As she finished reading that letter, Therese thought: "A word thrown
haphazard has placed him in that condition, a word has made him
despairing and mad." She tried to think who might be the wretched fellow
who could have talked in that way. She suspected two or three yo