heeks. Truly she had
waited for him; she had promised herself that they would be together
for a moment, and that she would invent some fiction. Now, however,
full consciousness of the situation flashed upon her; Henri believed
it to be an assignation. Yet she had never for one moment desired such
a thing, and her heart rebelled.

"Henri, I pray you, release me," said she.

He had grasped her by the wrists, and was drawing her slowly towards
him, as though to kiss her. The love that had been surging within him
for months, but which had grown less violent owing to the break in
their intimacy, now burst forth more fiercely than ever.

"Release me," she resumed. "You are frightening me. I assure you, you
are mistaken."

His surprise found voice once more.

"Was it not you then who wrote to me?" he asked.

She hesitated for a second. What could she say in answer?

"Yes," she whispered at last.

She could not betray Juliette after having saved her. An abyss lay
before her into which she herself was slipping. Henri was now glancing
round the two rooms in wonderment at finding them illumined and
furnished in such gaudy style. He ventured to question her.

"Are these rooms yours?" he asked.

But she remained silent.

"Your letter upset me so," he continued. "Helene, you are hiding
something from me. For mercy's sake, relieve my anxiety!"

She was not listening to him; she was reflecting that he was indeed
right in considering this to be an assignation. Otherwise, what could
she have been doing there? Why should she have waited for him? She
could devise no plausible explanation. She was no longer certain
whether she had not given him this rendezvous. A network of chance and
circumstance was enveloping her yet more tightly; there was no escape
from it. Each second found her less able to resist.

"You were waiting for me, you were waiting for me!" he repeated
passionately, as he bent his head to kiss her. And then as his lips
met hers she felt it beyond her power to struggle further; but, as
though in mute acquiescence, fell, half swooning and oblivious of the
world, upon his neck.

[Illustration: The meeting of Helene and Henri]

CHAPTER XX.

Jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the door, remained plunged in grief
over her mother's sudden departure. She gazed around her; the room was
empty and silent; but she could still hear the waning sounds of
hurrying footsteps and rustling skirts