e chair, in spite of her resistance. She
struggled in her husband's arms, and the only words which she uttered
were: "I love him! kill me! I love him! kill me!"

Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.

"You did not understand me," he said, "he is not the man I killed."

She became motionless, dumb. He left her then, from a feeling of
compassion, and returned to his seat. They remained for some time
seated in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head
leaning against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face
concealed behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted
this silence and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous
vibrations.

A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad
scene. Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock;
her frightened eyes met her husband's. He made an imperious gesture
with his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and
anxiously.

The same noise was heard a second time. A rattling against the blinds
was followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact
of some body against the window.

"It is some signal," said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his
wife. "You probably know what it means."

"I do not, I swear to you," replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a
new emotion.

"I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you.
Rise and open the window."

"Open the window?" said she, with a frightened look.

"Do what I tell you. Do you wish him to pass the night under your
window, so that the servants may see him?"

At this command, spoken in a severe tone, she arose. Noticing that their
shadows might be seen from the outside when the curtains were drawn,
Bergenheim changed the candles to another place. Clemence walked slowly
toward the window; she had hardly opened it, when a purse fell upon the
floor.

"Close it now," said the Baron. While his wife was quietly obeying, he
picked up the purse, and opening it, took the following note from it:

"I have ruined you--you for whom I would gladly have died! But of
what use are regrets and despair now? And my blood will not wipe
away your tears. Our position is so frightful that I tremble so
speak of it. I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it
may be. Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this
fatality, which oblig