rt at this idea, and gave her the
strength to descend the staircase. Halfway down she met M. de Clinchain,
who was ascending. He seized her by the arm, and said hoarsely,--

"Go back, madame, go back!"

"But tell me what has happened."

"A terrible calamity. Go back to your room, I beg of you. Your husband
will be here presently;" and, as Octave appeared, he absolutely pushed
her into her own room.

Octave followed, and, extending his arms, pressed his wife closely to
his breast, bursting as he did so into a passion of sobs.

"Ah!" cried M. de Clinchain joyously, "he is saved. See, he weeps; I had
feared for his reason."

After many questions and incoherent answers, Madame de Mussidan at last
arrived at the fact that her husband had shot Montlouis by accident.
Diana believed this story, but it was far from the truth. Montlouis had
met his death at her hands quite as much as the Duke de Champdoce had
done. He had died because he was the possessor of a fatal secret.

This was what had really occurred. After lunch, Octave, who had drunk
rather freely, began to rally Montlouis regarding his mysterious
movements, and to assert that some woman must be at the bottom of them.
At first Montlouis joined in the laugh; but at length M. de Mussidan
became too personal in remarks regarding the woman his secretary loved,
and Montlouis responded angrily. This influenced his master's temper,
and he went on to say that he could no longer permit such doings, and he
reproached his secretary for risking his present and future for a woman
who was worthy neither of love nor respect, and who was notoriously
unfaithful to him. Montlouis heard this last taunt with compressed lips
and a deep cloud upon his brow.

"Do not utter a word more, Count," said he; "I forbid you to do so."

He spoke so disrespectfully that Octave was about to strike him, but
Montlouis drew back and avoided the blow; but he was so intoxicated with
fury that this last insult roused him beyond all bounds.

"By what right do you speak thus," said he, "who have married another
man's mistress? It well becomes you to talk of woman's virtue, when your
wife is a--"

He had no time to finish his sentence, for Octave, levelling his gun,
shot him through the heart.

M. de Mussidan kept these facts from his wife because he really loved
her, and true love is capable of any extreme; and he felt that, however
strong the cause might be, he should never have the courage to se