e was not free from blame; that he had, at
least, rendered the execution of the crime an easy matter.

For it was indeed he who, by abusing his influence, had caused the
arrest of Maurice at Turin.

But though he was capable of the basest perfidy when his love was at
stake, he was incapable of virulent animosity.

Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to revoke the benefits he
had conferred, but the thought of doing so never once occurred to him.
And when Jean and Maurice insulted him, he revenged himself only by
overwhelming them by his magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale
as a ghost, his lips still cold from the kiss pressed on the brow of the
dead, he said to himself:

"For her sake, I will go to Courtornieu. In memory of her, the baron
must be saved."

By the expression on the faces of the valets when he dismounted in the
court-yard of the chateau and asked to see Mme. Blanche, the marquis
was again reminded of the profound sensation which this unexpected visit
would produce. But, what did it matter to him? He was passing through
one of those crises in which the mind can conceive of no further
misfortune, and is therefore indifferent to everything.

Still he trembled when they ushered him into the blue drawing-room.
He remembered the room well. It was here that Blanche had been wont to
receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was vacillating between her
and Marie-Anne.

How many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see
Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and laughing.
Her naivete was affected, perhaps, but was it any the less charming on
that account?

At this very moment Blanche entered the room. She looked so careworn
and sad that he scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by the look of
patient sorrow imprinted upon her features.

"How much you must have suffered, Blanche," he murmured, scarcely
knowing what he said.

It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She saw that he knew
nothing of her crime. She noticed his emotion, and saw the profit she
could derive from it.

"I can never cease to regret having displeased you," she replied, humbly
and sadly. "I shall never be consoled."

She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man's heart.

For there is no man so sceptical, so cold, or so _blase_ that his vanity
is not pleased with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake.

There is no man who is not moved by this most deli