r, it was because Modeste had given him some inkling
of its contents. He feared that the effect would be tremendous upon
nerves so highly strung and sensitive as those of Andre. But he need
not have been alarmed on this point. As the young painter mastered the
contents of the letter his features became ghastly pale, and a shudder
convulsed every nerve and muscle of his frame. With a mechanical gesture
he extended the paper to M. de Breulh, uttering the one word, "Read."

His friend obeyed him, more alarmed by Andre's laconism than he could
have been by some sudden explosion of passion.

"Do not lose heart," exclaimed he.

But Andre interrupted him. "Lose heart!" said he; "you do not know me.
When Sabine was ill, perhaps dying, far away from me, I did feel cast
down; but now that she tells me that she loves me, my feelings are of an
entirely different nature."

M. de Breulh was about to speak, but Andre went on.

"What is this marriage contract which my poor Sabine announces to me, as
if it was her death-warrant? Her parents must all along have intended
to break with you, but you were beforehand with them. Can they have
received a more advantageous offer of marriage already? It is scarcely
likely. When she confided the secret of her life to you, she certainly
knew nothing of this. What terrible event has happened since then? My
brave Sabine would never have submitted unless some coercion had been
used that she could not struggle against; she would rather have quitted
her father's house for ever."

As Andre uttered these words De Breulh's mind was busy with similar
reflections, for Modeste had given him some hint of the approaching
marriage, and had begged him to be most careful how he communicated the
facts to Andre.

"You must have noticed," continued the young painter, "the strange
coincidence between Sabine's illness and this note. You left her happy
and full of hope, and an hour afterward she falls senseless, as though
struck by lightning; as soon as she recovers a little she sends me this
terrible letter. Do you remember that Madame de Bois Arden told us that
during Sabine's illness her father and mother never left her bedside?
Was not this for fear lest some guilty secret of theirs might escape her
lips in a crisis of delirium?"

"Yes, I remember that, and I have long had reason to imagine that there
is some terrible family secret in the Mussidans' family, such as we too
often find among the descendants of