“Now that our fortune is restored, you must marry my brother,” said the younger in a low voice.  “He adores you; together you will be as rich as nobles ought to be in these days.”

“No, give the whole fortune to him and I will marry you,” said Laurence; “I am rich enough for two.”

“So be it,” cried the Marquis; “I will leave you, and find a wife worthy to be your sister.”

“So you really love me less than I thought you did?” said Laurence looking at him with a sort of jealousy.

“No; I love you better than either of you love me,” replied the marquis.

“And therefore you would sacrifice yourself?” asked Laurence with a glance full of momentary preference.

The marquis was silent.

“Well, then, I shall think only of you, and that will be intolerable to my husband,” exclaimed Laurence, impatient at his silence.

“How could I live without you?” said the younger twin to his brother.

“But, after all, you can’t marry us both,” said the marquis, replying to Laurence; “and the time has come,” he continued, in the brusque tone of a man who is struck to the heart, “to make your decision.”

He urged his horse in advance so that the d’Hauteserres might not overhear them.  His brother’s horse and Laurence’s followed him.  When they had put some distance between themselves and the rest of the party Laurence attempted to speak, but tears were at first her only language.

“I will enter a cloister,” she said at last.

“And let the race of Cinq-Cygne end?” said the younger brother.  “Instead of one unhappy man, would you make two?  No, whichever of us must be your brother only, will resign himself to that fate.  It is the knowledge that we are no longer poor that has brought us to explain ourselves,” he added, glancing at the marquis.  “If I am the one preferred, all this money is my brother’s.  If I am rejected, he will give it to me with the title of de Simeuse, for he must then take the name and title of Cinq-Cygne.  Whichever way it ends, the loser will have a chance of recovery—­but if he feels he must die of grief, he can enter the army and die in battle, not to sadden the happy household.”

“We are true knights of the olden time, worthy of our fathers,” cried the elder.  “Speak, Laurence; decide between us.”

“We cannot continue as we are,” said the younger.

“Do not think, Laurence, that self-denial is without its joys,” said the elder.

“My dear loved ones,” said the girl, “I am unable to decide.  I love you both as though you were one being—­as your mother loved you.  God will help us.  I cannot choose.  Let us put it to chance—­but I make one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Whichever one of you becomes my brother must stay with me until I suffer him to leave me.  I wish to be sole judge of when to part.”

“Yes, yes,” said the brothers, without explaining to themselves her meaning.