is that I am obliged to speak to you alone,"
she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration.

"_Le souvenir du beau passe!_" murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly.
"Is that it, ma belle Helene?"

"Monsieur," she cried, almost in tears, "pray listen to me; for pity's
sake tell me what you have done with my letters--have you destroyed
them?"

"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to my
heart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?"

"You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly.

"Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one--every single
one of them," he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter
in his black eyes.

"Not that--_that_ one?" pleaded Helen, piteously.

"Yes--that one too--that charming and delightful letter in which you so
generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection--do you remember
it?"

"Alas, only too well!" she murmured, hiding her face in her hands.

"Ah!" he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, which
resembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey. "Ah!
it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out of
Paris that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late to
rush to your side. You remember how it was, do you not? Your husband was
lying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him--ce pauvre mari!
Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not? And he was
not what you ladies call 'nice;' he did drink, and he did swear, and I
had been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to the
theatre and the bal d'Opera--do you remember?"

"Ah, for Heaven's sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!" cried
Helen, despairingly.

He went on pitilessly, as though he had not heard her, "And you were good
enough to write me several letters--there were one, two, three, four of
them," counting them off upon his fingers; "and then came the fifth--that
one you wrote when he was ill. Was it not a sad pity that I had gone out
of Paris for the day, and never received it till you and your husband had
left for England? But think you that I will part with it ever? It is my
consolation, my tresor!"

"Monsieur D'Arblet, if you have one spark of honour or of gentleman-like
feeling, you will give me those mad, foolish letters again. I entreat you
to do so. You know that I was beside myself when I wrote them, I was so
unhappy--do you not see tha