iding love.
His will was not stronger than the general turpitude of his nature. As
if he had divined my thought, he said, "My will is stronger than
any passion that I have; I can never plead weakness in the day of my
judgment. I am deliberate. When I choose evil it is because I love it. I
could be an anchorite; I am, as I said--what you will."

"You are a conscienceless villain, monsieur."

"Who salves not his soul," he added, with a dry smile, "who will play
his game out as he began; who repents nor ever will repent of anything;
who for him and you some interesting moments yet. Let me make one now,"
and he drew from his pocket a packet. He smiled hatefully as he handed
it to me, and said, "Some books which monsieur once lent Mademoiselle
Duvarney--poems, I believe. Mademoiselle found them yesterday, and
desired me to fetch them to you; and I obliged her. I had the pleasure
of glancing through the books before she rolled them up. She bade me say
that monsieur might find them useful in his captivity. She has a tender
heart--even to the worst of criminals."

I felt a strange churning in my throat, but with composure I took
the books, and said, "Mademoiselle Duvarney chooses distinguished
messengers."

"It is a distinction to aid her in her charities," he replied.

I could not at all conceive what was meant. The packet hung in my hands
like lead. There was a mystery I could not solve. I would not for an
instant think what he meant to convey by a look--that her choice of him
to carry back my gift to her was a final repulse of past advances I had
made to her, a corrective to my romantic memories. I would not believe
that, not for one fleeting second. Perhaps, I said to myself, it was
a ruse of this scoundrel. But again, I put that from me, for I did not
think he would stoop to little meannesses, no matter how vile he was in
great things. I assumed indifference to the matter, laying the packet
down upon my couch, and saying to him, "You will convey my thanks to
Mademoiselle Duvarney for these books, whose chief value lies in the
honourable housing they have had."

He smiled provokingly; no doubt he was thinking that my studied
compliment smelt of the oil of solitude. "And add--shall I--your
compliments that they should have their airing at the hands of Monsieur
Doltaire?"

"I shall pay those compliments to Monsieur Doltaire himself one day," I
replied.

He waved his fingers. "The sentiments of one of the poems were