--that I
refused----"

"That monsieur declined to save her?" Mademoiselle Claire answered
slowly, her great dark eyes looking into vacancy--into the depths of
gloomy memories. "Yes, they did. A woman, perhaps, would not have done
it; would not have borne to do it. But men are cruel--cruel! And after
all it helped her to die, you understand. It made it more easy."

He walked to the other end of the room, his face hidden in his hands.
And there his frame began to be racked by deep sobs. He tried to summon
up his pride, his courage, his manliness; but in vain. The thought that
the woman who had loved and trusted him, his young wife--his young wife
of a few months only--had died believing him a coward and an ingrate was
too bitter! Too bitter, the conviction that, mistaken as her belief was,
it could never be altered! Never be altered! She would never know!

A light touch on his arm recalled him to himself. He turned and found
Mademoiselle Claire at his elbow holding a glass of wine towards him.
Her lips were compressed, but her face wore a delicate flush, and her
eyes were changed and softened.

"Drink," she muttered hurriedly. "You are still weak; you have eaten
nothing."

He controlled himself by an effort and took the wine; and the girl,
moving away quickly, brought from the table a roll and, without again
meeting his eyes, laid it on a chair beside him. She was in the act of
regaining her place by the window, when the door opened somewhat
abruptly, and the young Vicomte, scarcely master of himself, turned and
discovered a man standing on the threshold.

The stranger stared at him and he at the stranger, while Mademoiselle
Claire, with eyes which on a sudden became keen and intent, seemed to
forget herself in gazing on both. The new-comer was taller than the
Vicomte and of about the same age; a thin, lithe man, with restless eyes
and dark, tumbled hair. He scanned the Vicomte with at least as much
disfavour as the latter, taken by surprise, spent on him; and he was the
first to speak.

"I thought that you were alone, mademoiselle," he said, frowning as he
advanced into the room and looked about him suspiciously.

"This is a friend of my father's," she answered, "He is staying with us,
M. Baudouin."

The explanation did not seem to improve matters in the young man's eyes.
He frowned still more gloomily.

"Monsieur is from the country?" he asked.

"No," the Vicomte answered. "I have been in Paris some months