“Oh, good heavens!  I have,” she said, throwing the bouquet on to the mantel-piece.  “You shall see.  I love M. de la Marche a little, and I love you much.  He loves me passionately, and you love me not at all.  That is the truth.”

“I forgive you this malicious interpretation with all my heart for the sake of the word ‘much,’” I replied.

I tried to take her hands.  She drew them away quickly, though, in fact, she had no need to fear; for had she given me them, I merely intended to press them in brotherly fashion; but this appearance of distrust aroused memories which were dangerous for me.  I fancy she showed a great deal of coquetry that evening in her expression and manners; and, until then, I had never seen the least inclination toward it.  I felt my courage rising, though I could not explain why; and I ventured on some pointed remarks about her interview with M. de la Marche.  She made no effort to deny my interpretations, and began to laugh when I told her that she ought to thank me for my exquisite politeness in retiring as soon as I saw her knit her brow.

Her supercilious levity was beginning to irritate me a little, when a servant entered and handed her a letter, saying that some one was waiting for an answer.

“Go to my writing-table and cut a pen for me, please,” she said to me.

With an air of unconcern she broke the seal and ran through the letter, while I, quite ignorant of the contents, began preparing her writing materials.

For some time the crow-quill had been cut ready for use; for some time the paper with its coloured vignette had been waiting by the side of the amber writing-case; yet Edmee paid no attention to them and made no attempt to use them.  The letter lay open in her lap; her feet were on the fire-dogs, her elbows on the arm of her chair in her favourite attitude of meditation.  She was completely absorbed.  I spoke to her softly; she did not hear me.  I thought that she had forgotten the letter and had fallen asleep.  After a quarter of an hour the servant came back and said that the messenger wished to know if there was any answer.

“Certainly,” she replied; “ask him to wait.”

She read the letter again with the closest attention, and began to write slowly; then she threw her reply into the fire, pushed away the arm-chair with her foot, walked round the room a few times, and suddenly stopped in front of me and looked at me in a cold, hard manner.

“Edmee,” I cried, springing to me feet, “what is the matter, and how does that letter which is worrying you so much concern myself?”

“What is that to you?” she replied.

“What is that to me?” I cried.  “And what is the air I breathe to me? and what is the blood that flows in my veins?  Ask me that, if you like, but do not ask how one of your words or one of your glances can concern me; for you know very well that my life depends on them.”