It was not until she was left alone that the Duchess saw the full extent of her folly and rashness.  She was terrified at the promise that she had given in a weak moment, and would have given worlds had she been able to retract.

There was yet, however, one means of safety left her—­she could hurry downstairs and secure the garden gate.  She started to her feet, determined to execute her project; but she was too late for the appointed signal was heard through the chill gloom of the night.  Unhappy woman!  The light sound of George de Croisenois’ palms striking one upon the other resounded in her ears like the dismal tolling of the funereal bell.  She stooped to light a candle at the fire, but her hand trembled so that she could scarcely effect her object.  She felt sure that George was still in the garden, though she had made no answer to his signal.  She had never thought that he would have had the audacity to open a door that led into the house from the garden, but this is what he had done.  In the most innocent manner imaginable, and so that her listener in no way suspected the special reason that she had for making this communication, Diana de Mussidan had informed George de Croisenois that upon this night all the domestics of the Champdoce household would be attending the coachman’s wedding, and that consequently the mansion would be deserted.  George knew also that the Duke was away at his training establishment, and he therefore opened the door, and walked boldly up the main staircase, so that when the Duchess, with the lighted candle in her hand, came to the top steps she found herself face to face with George de Croisenois, pallid with emotion and quivering with excitement.

At the sight of the man she loved she started backwards with a low cry of anguish and despair.

“Fly!” she said “fly, or we are lost!”

He did not, however, seem to hear her, and the Duchess recoiled slowly, step by step, through the open door of her chamber, across the carpeted floor, until she reached the opposite wall of her room, and could go no farther.

George followed her, and pushed to the door of the room as he entered it.  This brief delay, however, had sufficed to restore Marie to the full possession of her senses.  “If I permit him to speak,” thought she,—­“if he once suspects that my love for him is still as strong as ever, I am lost.”

Then she said aloud,—­

“You must leave this house, and that instantly.  I was mad when I said what I did yesterday.  You are too noble and too generous not to listen to me when I tell you that the moment of infatuation is over, and that all my reason has returned to me, and my openness will convince you of the truth of what I say—­George de Croisenois, I love you.”

The young man uttered an exclamation of delight upon hearing this news.

“Yes,” continued Marie, “I would give half the years of my remaining life to be your wife.  Yes, George, I love you; but the voice of duty speaks louder than the whispers of the heart.  I may die of grief, but there will be no stain upon my marriage robe, no remorse eating out my heart.  Farewell!”