the eyes of a serpent is to say nothing.  I felt her soul in them, looking into mine—­looking, if such a thing can be, unconsciously to her own mortal self.  I tell you my impression, in all its horror and in all its folly!  That woman is destined (without knowing it herself) to be the evil genius of my life.  Her innocent eyes saw hidden capabilities of wickedness in me that I was not aware of myself, until I felt them stirring under her look.  If I commit faults in my life to come—­if I am even guilty of crimes—­ she will bring the retribution, without (as I firmly believe) any conscious exercise of her own will.  In one indescribable moment I felt all this—­and I suppose my face showed it.  The good artless creature was inspired by a sort of gentle alarm for me.  “I am afraid the heat of the room is too much for you; will you try my smelling bottle?” I heard her say those kind words; and I remember nothing else—­I fainted.  When I recovered my senses, the company had all gone; only the lady of the house was with me.  For the moment I could say nothing to her; the dreadful impression that I have tried to describe to you came back to me with the coming back of my life.  As soon I could speak, I implored her to tell me the whole truth about the woman whom I had supplanted.  You see, I had a faint hope that her good character might not really be deserved, that her noble letter was a skilful piece of hypocrisy—­in short, that she secretly hated me, and was cunning enough to hide it.  No! the lady had been her friend from her girlhood, was as familiar with her as if they had been sisters—­knew her positively to be as good, as innocent, as incapable of hating anybody, as the greatest saint that ever lived.  My one last hope, that I had only felt an ordinary forewarning of danger in the presence of an ordinary enemy, was a hope destroyed for ever.  There was one more effort I could make, and I made it.  I went next to the man whom I am to marry.  I implored him to release me from my promise.  He refused.  I declared I would break my engagement.  He showed me letters from his sisters, letters from his brothers, and his dear friends—­ all entreating him to think again before he made me his wife; all repeating reports of me in Paris, Vienna, and London, which are so many vile lies.  “If you refuse to marry me,” he said, “you admit that these reports are true—­you admit that you are afraid to face society in the character of my wife.”  What could I answer?  There was no contradicting him—­he was plainly right:  if I persisted in my refusal, the utter destruction of my reputation would be the result.  I consented to let the wedding take place as we had arranged it—­ and left him.  The night has passed.  I am here, with my fixed conviction—­ that innocent woman is ordained to have a fatal influence over my life.  I am here with my one question to put, to the one man who can answer it.  For the last time, sir, what am I—­a demon who has seen the avenging angel? or only a poor mad woman, misled by the delusion of a deranged mind?’