rade, against which her arm
rested, in a certain manner--so, a little more forward, a little
more--and that suffering would be terminated. Yes, it would be so very
simple. She saw herself lying upon the pavement, her limbs broken, her
head crushed, dead--dead--freed! She leaned forward and was about to
leap, when her eyes fell upon a person who was walking below, the sight
of whom suddenly aroused her from the folly, the strange charm of which
had just laid hold so powerfully upon her. She drew back. She rubbed her
eyes with her hands, and she, who was accustomed to mystical enthusiasm,
said aloud:

"My God! You send him to me! I am saved." And she summoned the footman
to tell him that if M. Dorsenne asked for her, he should be shown into
Madame Steno's small salon. "I am not at home to any one else," she
added.

It was indeed Julien, whom she had seen approach the house at the very
instant when she was only separated from the abyss by that last tremor
of animal repugnance, which is found even in suicide of the most ardent
kind. Do not madmen themselves choose to die in one manner rather than
in another? She paused several moments in order to collect herself.

"Yes," said she at length, to herself, "it is the only solution. I will
find out if he loves me truly. And if he does not?"

She again looked toward the window, in order to assure herself that,
in case that conversation did not end as she desired, the tragical and
simple means remained at her service by which to free herself from that
infamous life which she surely could not bear.

Julien began the conversation in his tone of sentimental raillery, so
speedily to be transformed into one of drama! He knew very well, on
arriving at Villa Steno, that he was to have his last tete-a-tete with
his pretty and interesting little friend. For he had at length decided
to go away, and, to be more sure of not failing, he had engaged his
sleeping-berth for that night. He had jested so much with love that he
entered upon that conversation with a jest; when, having tried to take
Alba's hand to press a kiss upon it, he saw that it was bandaged.

"What has happened to you, little Countess? Have my laurels or those of
Florent Chapron prevented you from sleeping, that you are here with
the classical wrist of a duellist?... Seriously, how have you hurt
yourself?"

"I leaned against a window, which broke and the pieces of glass cut my
fingers somewhat," replied the young girl wi