“Now, sir,” said she, “do you comprehend me?  I know the terrible social abyss which divides me from the man I love, and the future may hold in store some terrible punishment for my fidelity to him, but no one shall ever hear a word of complaint from my lips, for——­” she hesitated, and then uttered these simple words—­“for I love him.”

M. de Breulh listened with an outwardly impassible face, but the venomed tooth of jealousy was gnawing at his heart.  He had not told Sabine the entire truth, for he had studied her for a long time, and his love had grown firm and strong.  Without an unkind thought the girl had shattered the edifice which he had built up with such care and pain.  He would have given his name, rank, and title to have been in this unknown lover’s place, who, though he worked for his bread, and had no grand ancestral name, was yet so fondly loved.  Many a man in his position would have shrugged his shoulders and coldly sneered at the words, “I love him,” but he did not, for his nature was sufficiently noble to sympathize with hers.  He admired her courage and frankness, which disdaining all subterfuges, went straight and unhesitatingly to the point she desired to reach.  She might be imprudent and reckless, but in his eyes these seemed hardly to be faults, for it is seldom that convent-bred young ladies err in this way.

“But this man,” said he, after a long pause,—­“how do you manage ever to see him?

“I meet him out walking,” replied she, “and I sometimes go to his studio.”

“To his studio?”

“Yes, I have sat to him several times for my portrait; but I have never done anything that I need blush to own.  You know all now, sir,” continued Sabine; “and it has been very hard for a young girl like me to say all this to you.  It is a thing that ought to be confided to my mother.”

Only those who have heard a woman that they are ardently attached to say, “I do not love you,” can picture M. de Breulh’s frame of mind.  Had any one else than Sabine made this communication he would not have withdrawn, but would have contested the prize with his more fortunate rival.  But now that Mademoiselle de Mussidan had, as it were, thrown herself upon his mercy, he could not bring himself to take advantage of her confidence.

“It shall be as you desire,” said he, with a faint tinge of bitterness in his tone.  “To-night I will write to your father, and withdraw my demand for your hand.  It is the first time that I have ever gone back from my word; and I am sure that your father will be highly indignant.”

Sabine’s strength and firmness had now entirely deserted her.  “From the depth of my soul, sir,” said she, “I thank you; for by this act of generosity I shall avoid a contest that I dreaded.”

“Unfortunately,” broke in De Breulh, “you do not see how useless to you will be the sacrifice that you exact from me.  Listen! you have not appeared much in society; and when you did, it was in the character of my betrothed; as soon as I withdraw hosts of aspirants for your hand will spring up.”