e could render her was to make her weep.

Nor did those laggard hours pass less bitterly for M. de Camors. He tried
to take no rest, but walked up and down his apartment until daylight in a
sort of frenzy. The distress of this poor child wounded him to the heart.
The souvenirs of the past rose before him and passed in sad procession.
Then the morrow would show him the crushed daughter with her mother--and
such a mother! Mortally stricken in all her best illusions, in all her
dearest beliefs, in all connected with the happiness of life!

He found that he still had in his heart lively feelings of pity; still
some remorse in his conscience.

This weakness irritated him, and he denounced it to himself. Who had
betrayed him? This question agitated him to an equal degree; but from the
first instant he had not been deceived in this matter.

The sudden grief and half-crazed conviction of his wife, her despairing
attitude and her silence, could only be explained by strong assurance and
certain revelation. After turning the matter over and over in his own
mind, he arrived at the conclusion that nothing could have thrown such
clear light into his life save the letters of Madame de Campvallon.

He never wrote the Marquise, but could not prevent her writing to him;
for to her, as to all women, love without letters was incomplete.

But the fault of the Count--inexcusable in a man of his tact--was in
preserving these letters. No one, however, is perfect, and he was an
artist. He delighted in these the 'chefs-d'oeuvre' of passionate
eloquence, was proud of inspiring them, and could not make up his mind to
burn or destroy them. He examined at once the secret drawer where he had
concealed them and, by certain signs, discovered the lock had been
tampered with. Nevertheless no letter was missing; the arrangement of
them alone had been disturbed.

His suspicions at once reverted to Vautrot, whose scruples he suspected
were slight; and in the morning they were confirmed beyond doubt by a
letter from the secretary. In fact Vautrot, after passing on his part a
most wretched night, did not feel his nerves equal in the morning to
meeting the reception the Count possibly had in waiting for him. His
letter was skilfully penned to put suspicion to sleep if it had not been
fully roused, and if the Countess had not betrayed him.

It announced his acceptance of a lucrative situation suddenly offered him
in a commercial house in London. He was o