t they compromise me fatally; that it is my
good name, my reputation, which are at stake?" In her agony she had half
sunk at his feet on the floor of the carriage, clasping her hands
entreatingly together.

Monsieur D'Arblet raised her with _empressement_.

"Ah, madame, do not thus humiliate yourself at my feet. Why should you be
afraid? Are not your good name and your reputation safe in my hands?"

Helen burst into bitter tears.

"How cruel, how wicked you are!" she cried; "no Englishman would treat a
lady in this way."

"Your Englishmen are fools, ma chere--and I--I am French!" he replied,
shrugging his shoulders expressively.

"But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping those
wretched letters?"

He bent his face down close to hers.

"Shall I tell you, belle Helene? It is this: You are beautiful and you
have talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, you
will have money--then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, with
that precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You will
marry me, ma chere, or I will make public these letters.' Do you see?
Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty as
much as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you will
not venture to marry--because I have these letters?"

"You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly.

"Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care to
be your husband after he had read that last letter--the fifth, you know?"

No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion.

Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she did
not raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she had
buried it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage.

"Now," he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to your
house. We have had our little talk, have we not?"

The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door.

"Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness," said D'Arblet,
raising his hat politely.

In another minute he was gone, and Helen, hoping that the darkness had
concealed the traces of her agitation from the servant's prying eyes, was
driven on, more dead than alive, to her grandfather's house.

CHAPTER VII.

EVENING REVERIES.

For nothing on earth is sadder
Than the dream that cheated the grasp,
The flower that turned to the adder,
The fruit that changed