“Do not talk nonsense now, Bernard,” she answered, returning to her arm-chair in a distracted manner.  “There is a time for everything.”

“Edmee, Edmee! do not play with the sleeping lion, do not stir up the fire which is smouldering in the ashes.”

She shrugged her shoulders, and began to write with great rapidity.  Her face was flushed, and from time to time she passed her fingers through the long hair which fell in ringlets over her shoulders.  She was dangerously beautiful in her agitation; she looked as if in love—­but with whom?  Doubtless with him to whom she was writing.  I began to feel the fires of jealousy.  I walked out of the room abruptly and crossed the hall.  I looked at the man who had brought the letter; he was in M. de la Marche’s livery.  I had no further doubts; this, however, only increased my rage.  I returned to the drawing-room and threw open the door violently.  Edmee did not even turn her head; she continued writing.  I sat down opposite her, and stared at her with flashing eyes.  She did not deign to raise her own to mine.  I even fancied that I noticed on her ruby lips the dawn of a smile which seemed an insult to my agony.  At last she finished her letter and sealed it.  I rose and walked towards her, feeling strongly tempted to snatch it from her hands.  I had learnt to control myself somewhat better than of old; but I realized how, with passionate souls, a single instant may destroy the labours of many days.

“Edmee,” I said to her, in a bitter tone, and with a frightful grimace that was intended to be a sarcastic smile, “would you like me to hand this letter to M. de la Marche’s lackey, and at the same time tell him in a whisper at what time his master may come to the tryst?”

“It seems to me,” she replied, with a calmness that exasperated me, “that it was possible to mention the time in my letter, and that there is no need to inform a servant of it.”

“Edmee, you ought to be a little more considerate of me,” I cried.

“That doesn’t trouble me the least in the world,” she replied.

And throwing me the letter she had received across the table she went out to give the answer to the messenger herself.  I do not know whether she had told me to read this letter; but I do know that the impulse which urged me to do so was irresistible.  It ran somewhat as follows: 

“Edmee, I have at last discovered the fatal secret which, according to you, sets an impassable barrier in the way of our union.  Bernard loves you; his agitation this morning betrayed him.  But you do not love him, I am sure . . . that would be impossible!  You would have told me frankly.  The obstacle, then, must be elsewhere.  Forgive me!  It has come to my knowledge that you spent two hours in the brigand’s den.  Unhappy girl! your misfortune, your prudence, your sublime delicacy make you still nobler in my eyes.  And why did you not confide to me at once the misfortune