s falling on the floor. And
stammering, distracted with love, weak before her, he begged her
to consent to this marriage, to give him the right to follow her
everywhere, to defend her. Then the words failed him, stifled in a
passionate sob, so deep, so lacerating that it should have touched any
heart, above all among this splendid impassible scenery in this perfumed
heat. But Felicia was not touched. "Let us have done, Jenkins," said
she brusquely. "What you ask is impossible. We have nothing to hide from
each other, and after your confidences just now, I wish to make one to
you, which humbles my pride, but your degradation makes you worthy. I
was Mora's mistress."

Paul knew this. And yet it was so sad to hear this beautiful, pure voice
laden with such a confession, in the midst of the intoxicating air, that
he felt his heart contract.

"I knew it," answered Jenkins in a low voice, "I have the letters you
wrote to him."

"My letters?"

"Oh, I will give them to you--here. I know them by heart. I have read
and reread them. It is that which hurts one, when one loves. But I
have suffered other tortures. When I think that it was I--" He stopped
himself. He choked. "I who had to furnish fuel for your flames, warm
this frozen lover, send him to you ardent and young--Ah! he has devoured
my pearls--I might refuse over and over again, he was always taking
them. At last I was mad. You wish to burn, wretched woman. Well, burn,
then!"

Paul rose to his feet in terror. Was he going to hear the confession
of a crime? But the shame of hearing more was not inflicted on him.
A violent knocking, this time on his own door, warned him that his
_calesino_ was ready.

"Is the French gentleman ready?"

In the next room there was silence, then a whisper.--There had been some
one near who had heard them.--Paul de Gery hurried downstairs. He must
get out of this room to escape the weight of so much infamy.

As the post-chaise swayed, he saw among the common white curtains, which
float at all the windows in the south, a pale figure with the hair of
a goddess, and great burning eyes fixed on him. But a glance at Aline's
portrait quickly dispelled this disturbing vision, and forever cured
of his old love, he travelled until evening through the magic landscape
with the lovely bride of the _dejeuner_, who carried in the folds of her
modest robe and mantle all the violets of Bordighera.

THE FIRST NIGHT OF "REVOLT"

"Take your pl