trials in life, it is a support and an infallible defence; that it
can enforce the precepts which come from God--in fact that it can replace
God--this is a terrible mistake. It exposes one in a fatal moment to the
loss of one's self-esteem, and to fall suddenly and forever into that
dismal ocean of bitterness where Camors at that instant was struggling in
despair, like a drowning man in the darkness of midnight.

He abandoned himself, on this evil night, to a final conflict full of
agony; and he was beaten.

The next evening at six o'clock he was at the house of the Marquise. He
found her in her boudoir, surrounded by all her regal luxury. She was
half buried in a fauteuil in the chimney-corner, looking a little pale
and fatigued. She received him with her usual coldness and
self-possession.

"Good-day," she said. "How are you?"

"Not very well," replied Camors.

"What is the matter?"

"I fancy that you know."

She opened her large eyes wide with surprise, but did not reply.

"I entreat you, Madame," continued Camors, smiling--"no more music, the
curtain is raised, and the drama has begun."

"Ah! we shall see."

"Do you love me?" he continued; "or were you simply acting, to try me,
last night? Can you, or will you, tell me?"

"I certainly could, but I do not wish to do so."

"I had thought you more frank."

"I have my hours."

"Well, then," said Camors, "if your hours of frankness have passed, mine
have begun."

"That would be compensation," she replied.

"And I will prove it to you," continued Camors.

"I shall make a fete of it," said the Marquise, throwing herself back on
the sofa, as if to make herself comfortable in order to enjoy an
agreeable conversation.

"I love you, Madame; and as you wish to be loved. I love you devotedly
and unto death--enough to kill myself, or you!"

"That is well," said the Marquise, softly.

"But," he continued in a hoarse and constrained tone, "in loving you, in
telling you of it, in trying to make you share my love, I violate basely
the obligations of honor of which you know, and others of which you know
not. It is a crime, as you have said. I do not try to extenuate my
offence. I see it, I judge it, and I accept it. I break the last moral
tie that is left me; I leave the ranks of men of honor, and I leave also
the ranks of humanity. I have nothing human left except my love, nothing
sacred but you; but my crime elevates itself by its magnitude. Well, I
interp