“‘Ah!  I inspire you with horror.’

“‘We have just committed a marvellous imprudence,’ I said.

“‘Ah! what does it matter?’

“Then, in a hoarse voice, she added,—­

“’Happiness awaits you, and a new life full of intoxicating hopes:  it is quite natural that you should tremble.  I, whose life is ended, and who have nothing to look for,—­I, in whom you have killed every hope,—­I am not afraid.’

“I saw her anger rising within her, and said very quietly,—­

“‘I hope you do not repent of your generosity, Genevieve.’

“‘Perhaps I do,’ she replied, in an accent which made me tremble.  ’How you must laugh at me!  What a wretched thing a woman is who is abandoned, who resigns, and sheds tears!’

“Then she went on fiercely,—­

“‘Confess that you have never loved me really!’

“‘Ah, you know very well the contrary!’

“‘Still you abandon me for another,—­for that Dionysia!’

“‘You are married:  you cannot be mine.’

“’Then if I were free—­if I had been a widow’—­

“‘You would be my wife you know very well.’

“She raised her arms to heaven, like a drowning person; and, in a voice which I thought they could hear at the house, she cried,—­

“’His wife!  If I were a widow, I would be his wife!  O God!  Luckily, that thought, that terrible thought, never occurred to me before.’”

All of a sudden, at these words, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre rose from his chair, and, placing himself before Jacques de Boiscoran, he asked, looking at him with one of those glances which seem to pierce our innermost heart,—­

“And then?”

Jacques had to summon all the energy that was left him to be able to continue with a semblance of calmness, at least,—­

“Then I tried every thing in the world to quiet the countess, to move her, and bring her back to the generous feelings of former days.  I was so completely upset that I hardly knew what I was saying.  I hated her bitterly, and still I could not help pitying her.  I am a man; and there is no man living who would not feel deeply moved at seeing himself the object of such bitter regrets and such terrible despair.  Besides, my happiness and Dionysia’s honor were at stake.  How do I know what I said?  I am not a hero of romance.  No doubt I was mean.  I humbled myself, I besought her, I told falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was my family, mainly, who made me marry.  I hoped I should be able, by great kindness and caressing words, to soften the bitterness of the parting.  She listened to me, remaining as impassive as a block of ice; and, when I paused, she said with a sinister laugh,—­

“’And you tell me all that!  Your Dionysia!  Ah! if I were a woman like other women, I would say nothing to-day, and, before the year was over, you would again be at my feet.’

“She must have been thinking of our meeting at the cross-roads.  Or was this the last outburst of passion at the moment when the last ties were broken off?  I was going to speak again; but she interrupted me bruskly, saying,—­