ered the fatal secret which, according to
you, sets an impassable barrier in the way of our union. Bernard loves
you; his agitation this morning betrayed him. But you do not love him, I
am sure . . . that would be impossible! You would have told me frankly.
The obstacle, then, must be elsewhere. Forgive me! It has come to my
knowledge that you spent two hours in the brigand's den. Unhappy girl!
your misfortune, your prudence, your sublime delicacy make you still
nobler in my eyes. And why did you not confide to me at once the
misfortune of which you were a victim? I could have eased your sorrow
and my own by a word. I could have helped you to hide your secret. I
could have wept with you; or, rather, I could have wiped out the odious
recollection by displaying an attachment proof against anything. But
there is no need to despair; there is still time to say this word, and
I do so now: Edmee, I love you more than ever; more than ever I am
resolved to offer you my name; will you deign to accept it?"

This note was signed Adhemar de la Marche.

I had scarcely finished reading it when Edmee returned, and came towards
the fire-place with an anxious look, as if she had forgotten some
precious object. I handed her the letter that I had just read; but she
took it absently, and, stooping over the hearth with an air of relief,
eagerly seized a crumpled piece of paper which the flames had merely
scorched. This was the first answer she had written to M. de la Marche's
note, the one she had not judged fit to send.

"Edmee," I said, throwing myself on my knees, "let me see that letter.
Whatever if may be, I will submit to the decree dictated by your first
impulse."

"You really would?" she asked, with an indefinable expression.
"Supposing I loved M. de la Marche, and that I was making a great
sacrifice for your sake in refusing him, would you be generous enough to
release me from my word?"

I hesitated for a moment. A cold sweat broke out all over me. I looked
her full in the face; but her eyes were inscrutable and betrayed no hint
of her thoughts. If I had fancied that she really loved me and that
she was putting my virtue to the test, I should perhaps have played the
hero; but I was afraid of some trap. My passion overmastered me. I felt
that I had not the strength to renounce my claim with a good grace; and
hypocrisy was repugnant to me. I rose to my feet, trembling with rage.

"You love him!" I cried. "Confess that you love h