of which you were a victim?  I could have eased your sorrow and my own by a word.  I could have helped you to hide your secret.  I could have wept with you; or, rather, I could have wiped out the odious recollection by displaying an attachment proof against anything.  But there is no need to despair; there is still time to say this word, and I do so now:  Edmee, I love you more than ever; more than ever I am resolved to offer you my name; will you deign to accept it?”

This note was signed Adhemar de la Marche.

I had scarcely finished reading it when Edmee returned, and came towards the fire-place with an anxious look, as if she had forgotten some precious object.  I handed her the letter that I had just read; but she took it absently, and, stooping over the hearth with an air of relief, eagerly seized a crumpled piece of paper which the flames had merely scorched.  This was the first answer she had written to M. de la Marche’s note, the one she had not judged fit to send.

“Edmee,” I said, throwing myself on my knees, “let me see that letter.  Whatever if may be, I will submit to the decree dictated by your first impulse.”

“You really would?” she asked, with an indefinable expression.  “Supposing I loved M. de la Marche, and that I was making a great sacrifice for your sake in refusing him, would you be generous enough to release me from my word?”

I hesitated for a moment.  A cold sweat broke out all over me.  I looked her full in the face; but her eyes were inscrutable and betrayed no hint of her thoughts.  If I had fancied that she really loved me and that she was putting my virtue to the test, I should perhaps have played the hero; but I was afraid of some trap.  My passion overmastered me.  I felt that I had not the strength to renounce my claim with a good grace; and hypocrisy was repugnant to me.  I rose to my feet, trembling with rage.

“You love him!” I cried.  “Confess that you love him!”

“And if I did,” she answered, putting the letter in her pocket, “where would be the crime?”

“The crime would be that hitherto you have lied in telling me that you did not love him.”

“Hitherto is saying a good deal,” she rejoined, looking at me fixedly; “we have not discussed the matter since last year.  At that time it was possible that I did not love Adhemar very much, and at present it might be possible that I loved him more than you.  If I compare the conduct of both to-day I see on the one hand a man without proper pride and without delicacy, presuming upon a promise which my heart perhaps has never ratified; on the other I see an admirable friend whose sublime devotion is ready to brave all prejudices; who—­believing that I bear the smirch of an indelible shame—­is none the less prepared to cover the blot with his protection.”

“What! this wretch believes that I have done violence to you, and yet does not challenge me to a duel?”