Unable to contain her delight, she mingled her laughter and her tears.

And Norbert knew that his name, his honor, and perhaps his life were in the hands of a wretched girl like this.  All the peace and happiness of his life were gone, and he felt like some unhappy prisoner who through the bars of his dungeon sees his jailer’s children sporting with lighted matches and a barrel of gunpowder.  He was at her mercy, for well he knew that it would resolve into this—­that the smallest wish of this girl would become an imperative command that he dared not disobey.  However absurd might be her whims and caprices, she had but to express them, and he dared not resist.  What means could he adopt to free himself from this odious state of servitude?  He knew but of one—­the dead tell no tales.  There were four persons who were the sharer of Norbert’s secret.  First, the writer of the anonymous letter; then the Duchess; then Caroline Schimmel; and, finally, Jean, to whom he must confide all.  With these thoughts ringing through his brain, Norbert carefully effaced the last traces of the duel, and then bent his steps towards his wife’s chamber.

He had expected to find her still unconscious on the spot where he had left her lying.  Marie was seated in an armchair by the side of the fire; her face was terribly pale, and her eyes sparkling with the inward flame that consumed her.

“My honor has been vindicated; the Marquis de Croisenois is no more; I have slain your lover, madame.”

Marie did not start; she had evidently prepared herself for this blow.  Her face assumed a more proud and disdainful expression, and the light in her dark eyes grew brighter and brighter.

“You are wrong,” said she, “M. de Croisenois was not my lover.”

“You need no longer take the pains to lie; I ask nothing now.”

Marie’s utter calmness jarred inexpressibly upon Norbert’s exasperated frame of mind.  He would have given much to change this mood of hers, which he could not at all understand.  But in vain did he say the most cutting things, and coupled them with bitter taunts, for she had reached a pitch of exaltation far above his sarcasms and abuse.

“I am not lying,” answered she frigidly.  “What should I gain by it?  What more have I to gain in this world?  You desire to learn the truth; here it is then:  It was with my knowledge and permission that George was here to-night.  He came because I had asked him to do so, and I left the gate in the garden wall open, so as to facilitate his entrance.  He had not been more than five minutes in the room, when you arrived, and he had never been there before.  It would have been easy for me to have left you; but as I bear your name, I could not dishonor it.  As you entered, he was entreating me to fly with him; both his life and his honor were in my hands.  Ah, why did I pause for an instant?  Had I consented, he would still have been alive, and in some far distant country he and