With this difference, however, that if the traveler errs, and discovers his error, he is always free to retrace his steps; whereas man, in life, can never return to his starting-point.  Every step he takes is final; and if he has erred, if he has taken the fatal road, there is no remedy.

“Well, no matter!” exclaimed Maxence.  “It shall not be said that through cowardice I have allowed that happiness to escape which passes within my reach.  I shall stay.”  And at once he began to examine what reasonably he might expect; for there was no mistaking Mlle. Lucienne’s intentions.  When she had said, “Do you wish to be friends?” she had meant exactly that, and nothing else,—­friends, and only friends.

“And yet,” thought Maxence, “if I had not inspired her with a real interest, would she have so wholly confided unto me?  She is not ignorant of the fact that I love her; and she knows life too well to suppose that I will cease to love her when she has allowed me a certain amount of intimacy.”

His heart filled with hope at the idea.

“My mistress,” he thought, “never, evidently, but my wife.  Why not?”

But the very next moment he became a prey to the bitterest discouragement.  He thought that perhaps Mlle. Lucienne might have some capital interest in thus making a confidant of him.  She had not told him the explanation given her by the peace-officer.  Had she not, perhaps, succeeded in lifting a corner of the veil which covered the secret of her birth?  Was she on the track of her enemies? and had she discovered the motive of their animosity?

“Is it possible,” thought Maxence, “that I should be but one of the powers in the game she is playing?  How do I know, that, if she wins, she will not cast me off?”

In the midst of these thoughts, he had gradually fallen asleep, murmuring to the last the name of Lucienne.

The creaking of his opening door woke him up suddenly.  He started to his feet, and met Mlle. Lucienne coming in.

“How is this?” said she.  “You did not go to bed?”

“You recommended me to reflect,” he replied.  “I’ve been reflecting.”

He looked at his watch:  it was twelve o’clock.

“Which, however,” he added, “did not keep me from going to sleep.”

All the doubts that besieged him at the moment when he had been overcome by sleep now came back to his mind with painful vividness.

“And not only have I been sleeping,” he went on, “but I have been dreaming too.”

Mlle. Lucienne fixed upon him her great black eyes.

“Can you tell me your dream?” she asked.

He hesitated.  Had he had but one minute to reflect, perhaps he would not have spoken; but he was taken unawares.

“I dreamed,” he replied, “that we were friends in the noblest and purest acceptance of that word.  Intelligence, heart, will, all that I am, and all that I can,—­I laid every thing at your feet.  You accepted the most entire devotion, the most respectful and the most tender that man is capable of.  Yes, we were friends indeed; and upon a glimpse of love, never expressed, I planned a whole future of love.”  He stopped.