A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to the room.

The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were burning at the bottom of a huge grate.  She shivered, perhaps more from emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even to warm her feet, soaked by the rain.

A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered.

He had greatly changed during these few months.

His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks.  It was evident that anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow.

At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor.

—­You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle?

—­I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again?

—­Not now, dear child, I confess to you.  I had said to you:  Wait.

—­And I have waited.  And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count.  But ... sir....  I am tired:  will you allow me to sit down?

—­Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has filled me with such confusion....

He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her.

—­Ah! dear child, you do not know with what cares I am overwhelmed.

—­They must indeed be very serious, sir, since they have made you forgetful of your duties, even to the care of your honour and of mine ... for the moment is approaching when I shall no longer he able to hide the consequences of your....

—­Of our fault, dear Suzanne, of both our faults.  Do not overwhelm me alone, for it was your pretty face which made me mad.  But is it really possible?  Can it be true? what, you are....

—­I have let you know it, sir, a long time ago, and you have not deigned to give any answer on that subject.  I have read and read again your letters many times, seeking for a word which might console me, for a hope, for a light, but there was nothing.  You have told me to wait; you have tried, like a coward, to gain time, you have reckoned on something unforeseen occurring, which might settle the question without your aid ... and you would have washed your hands of it in peace in your broad conscience.  But the time has gone on, the unexpected has not come, and now here I am, and I come to ask you:  What do you intend to do with me?

—­In truth, dear Suzanne, I had not believed ...  Ah, you are more beautiful than ever ...  No, I had not believed that the case was so desperate.

—­You have not believed.  No doubt, amidst your life of lies, surrounded by hypocrites and criminals, you have included me charitably in the number, and supposed that I lied.