“God knows I have bitterly regretted that you should suffer for my passions.  And, if it is any satisfaction to you, I go unwillingly, and the parting will be very bitter.”

She drew a sharp breath, and flung her head about.  “One cannot triumph over you!” she cried.  “Why was I such a fool as to come here to-night?  My imagination would have served me better.”

“Is it French money?” asked Hamilton.

“Yes, but I alone am responsible.  We handle immense sums, and its disposal is left to our discretion.  This will be distasteful neither to France nor Virginia,—­I suppose I may have Louisiana, if I want it!—­but I am no man’s agent in this matter.”

“You are magnificent!  It is quite like you to disdain to share your terrible responsibility.  I can lighten it a little.  I shall not shoot Burr.”

“I should rather you did.  Still, it does not matter.  He will be disposed of, and I shall lead the hue and cry.”

“You are young to be so brutal.  Will your conscience never torment you?”

“I have too much brain to submit to conscience, and you know it.  I shall suffer the torments of the damned, but not from conscience.  But I would rather suffer with you out of the world than in it.  I have stood that as long as a mere mortal can stand anything.  Revenge is not my only motive.  Either you or I must go, and as I have now found the means of boundless distraction, I live.  I have been on the point of killing myself and you more than once.  But my power to injure you gave me an exquisite satisfaction; and then, I always hoped.  Now the time for the period has come.”  Her chin sank to her neck, and she stared at him until her eyes filled.  “Do you love them so much more than you ever loved me?” she asked wistfully.

Hamilton turned away his head.  “Yes,” he said.

She drew a long shivering breath.  “Ah!” she said.  “You are a frail shadow of yourself.  You have no passion in you.  And yet, even as you are, I would fling these jewels into the river, and live with you until you died in my arms.  You may think me a monster, if you like, but you shall die knowing that your wife does not love you as I do.”

Hamilton leaned forward and dried her tears.  “Say that you forgive me,” she said; for audacity was ever a part of genius.

“Yes,” he said grimly, “I forgive you.  You and Bonaparte are the two magnificent products of the French Revolution.  I am sorry you are not more of a philosopher, but, so far as I alone am concerned, I regret nothing.”

“Oh, men!” she exclaimed, with scorn.  “They are always philosophers when they are no longer in love with a woman.  But you will give me your last conscious moment?”

“No,” he said deliberately, “I shall not.”