“I am not ignorant,” continued the strange woman, “that I should have difficulty in rising from the degradation in which I appeared to you at our first meeting.  If, at the time you consented to take me with you to Paris, I had seen you incline to treat me with gallantry, had you shown any sign of turning to your profit the dangerous situation in which I had placed myself, my heart would instantly have retired; you would have seemed to me an ordinary man—­”

“So,” remarked Sallenauve, “to love you would have been insulting; not to love you was cruel!  What sort of woman are you, that either way you are displeased?”

“You ought not to have loved me,” she replied, “while the mud was still on my skirts and you scarcely knew me; because then your love would have been the love of the eyes and not of the soul.  But when, after two years passed beside you, you had seen by my conduct that I was an honorable woman; when, without ever accepting a pleasure, I devoted myself to the care of the house and your comfort without other relaxation than the study of my art; and when, above all, I sacrificed to you that modesty you had seen me defend with such energy,—­then you were cruel not to comprehend, and never, never will your imagination tell you what I have suffered, and all the tears you have made me shed.”

“But, my dear Luigia, I was your host, and even had I suspected what you now reveal to me, my duty as an honorable man would have commanded me to see nothing of it, and to take no advantage of you.”

“Ah! that is not the reason; it is simpler than that.  You saw nothing because your fancy turned elsewhere.”

“Well, and if it were so?”

“It ought not to be so,” replied Luigia, vehemently.  “That woman is not free; she has a husband and children, and though you did make a saint of her, I presume to say, ridiculous as it may seem, that she is not worth me!”

Sallenauve could not help smiling, but he answered very seriously,—­

“You are totally mistaken as to your rival.  Madame de l’Estorade was never anything to me but a model, without other value than the fact that she resembled another woman.  That one I knew in Rome before I knew you.  She had beauty, youth, and a glorious inclination for art.  To-day she is confined in a convent; like you, she has paid her tribute to sorrow; therefore, you see—­”

“What, three hearts devoted to you,” cried Luigia, “and not one accepted?  A strange star is yours!  No doubt I suffer from its fatal influence, and therefore I must pardon you.”

“You are good to be merciful; will you now let me ask you a question?  Just now you spoke of your future, and I see it with my own eyes.  Who are the friends who have suddenly advanced you so far and so splendidly in your career?  Have you made any compact with the devil?”

“Perhaps,” said Luigia, laughing.

“Don’t laugh,” said Sallenauve; “you chose to rush alone and unprotected into that hell called Paris, and I dread lest you have made some fatal acquaintance.  I know the immense difficulties and the immense dangers that a woman placed as you are now must meet.  Who is this lady that you spoke of? and how did you ever meet her while living under my roof?”