sked you in mercy to leave me in obscurity, and unknown. Soon the whole
town knew that I was your mistress. Every one was talking of the money
you spent on me. How I blushed at the flaunting luxury you thrust upon
me! You were satisfied, because my beauty became celebrated; I wept,
because my shame became so too. People talked about me, as those women
who make their lovers commit the greatest follies. Was not my name in
the papers? And it was through the same papers that I heard of your
approaching marriage. Unhappy woman! I should have fled from you, but I
had not the courage. I resigned myself, without an effort, to the most
humiliating, the most shameful of positions. You were married; and I
remained your mistress. Oh, what anguish I suffered during that terrible
evening. I was alone in my own home, in that room so associated with
you; and you were marrying another! I said to myself, 'At this moment,
a pure, noble young girl is giving herself to him.' I said again, 'What
oaths is that mouth, which has so often pressed my lips, now taking?'
Often since that dreadful misfortune, I have asked heaven what crime I
had committed that I should be so terribly punished? This was the crime.
I remained your mistress, and your wife died. I only saw her once, and
then scarcely for a minute, but she looked at you, and I knew that she
loved you as only I could. Ah, Guy, it was our love that killed her!"

She stopped exhausted, but none of the bystanders moved. They listened
breathlessly, and waited with feverish emotion for her to resume.

Mademoiselle d'Arlange had not the strength to remain standing; she had
fallen upon her knees, and was pressing her handkerchief to her mouth to
keep back her sobs. Was not this woman Albert's mother?

The worthy nun was alone unmoved; she had seen, she said to herself,
many such deliriums before. She understood absolutely nothing of what
was passing.

"These people are very foolish," she muttered, "to pay so much attention
to the ramblings of a person out of her mind."

She thought she had more sense than the others, so, approaching the bed,
she began to cover up the sick woman.

"Come, madame," said she, "cover yourself, or you will catch cold."

"Sister!" remonstrated the doctor and priest at the same moment.

"For God's sake!" exclaimed the soldier, "let her speak."

"Who," continued the sick woman, unconscious of all that was passing
about her, "who told you I was deceiving you? Oh,