had cost him so much; and he would never give the hand of his daughter to a man who had no money.  This last comment was useless.  Above my actions, my thoughts, my hopes, higher than all, soars my pride.  Instantly I saw an abyss opening between me and her whom I love more than my life, but less than my dignity.  When a man’s name is Genost de Tregars, he must support his wife, were it by breaking stones.  And the thought that I owed my fortune to the woman I married would make me execrate her.

“You must remember, my old friend, that I told you all this at the time.  You thought, too, that it was singularly impertinent, on my part, thus to flare up in advance, because, certainly a millionaire does not give his daughter to a ruined nobleman in the pay of Marcolet, the patent-broker, to a poor devil of an inventor, who is building the castles of his future upon the solution of a problem which has been given up by the most brilliant minds.

“It was then that I determined upon an extreme resolution, a foolish one, no doubt, and yet to which you, the Count de Villegre, my father’s old friend, you have consented to lend yourself.

“I thought that I would address myself to her, to her alone, and that she would at least know what great, what immense love she had inspired.  I thought I would go to her and tell her, ’This is who I am, and what I am.  For mercy’s sake, grant me a respite of three years.  To a love such as mine there is nothing impossible.  In three years I shall be dead, or rich enough to ask your hand.  From this day forth, I give up my task for work of more immediate profit.  The arts of industry have treasures for successful inventors.  If you could only read in my soul, you would not refuse me the delay I am asking.  Forgive me!  One word, for mercy’s sake, only one!  It is my sentence that I am awaiting.’”

Mlle. Gilberte’s thoughts were in too great a state of confusion to permit her to think of being offended at this extraordinary proceeding.  She rose, quivering, and addressing herself to Mme. Favoral: 

“Come, mother,” she said, “come:  I feel that I have taken cold.  I must go home and think.  To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, we will come again.”

Deep as Mme. Favoral was plunged in her meditations, and a thousand miles as she was from the actual situation, it was impossible that she should not notice the intense excitement under which her daughter labored, the alteration of her features, and the incoherence of her words.

“What is the matter?” she asked, somewhat alarmed.  “What are you saying?”

“I feel unwell,” answered her daughter in a scarcely audible voice, “quite unwell.  Come, let us go home.”

As soon as they reached home, Mlle. Gilberte took refuge in her own room.  She was in haste to be alone, to recover her self-possession, to collect her thoughts, more scattered than dry leaves by a storm wind.