“You see, Jacques, I have not hesitated to dare every thing in order to procure you a few house of liberty.  May I not know what you are going to do in that time?”

And, as he made no reply, she repeated,—­

“Where are you going?”

A rush of blood colored the face of the unfortunate man; and he said in an embarrassed voice,—­

“I beseech you, Dionysia, do not insist upon my telling you.  Permit me to keep this secret, the only one I have ever kept from you.”

Two tears trembled for a moment in the long lashes of the young girl, and then silently rolled down her cheeks.

“I understand you,” she stammered.  “I understand but too well.  Although I know so little of life, I had a presentiment, as soon as I saw that they were hiding something from me.  Now I cannot doubt any longer.  You will go to see a woman to-morrow”—­

“Dionysia,” Jacques said with folded hands,—­“Dionysia, I beseech you!”

She did not hear him.  Gently shaking her heard, she went on,—­

“A woman whom you have loved, or whom you love still, at whose feet you have probably murmured the same words which you whispered at my feet.  How could you think of her in the midst of all your anxieties?  She cannot love you, I am sure.  Why did she not come to you when she found that you were in prison, and falsely accused of an abominable crime?”

Jacques cold bear it no longer.

“Great God!” he cried, “I would a thousand times rather tell you every thing than allow such a suspicion to remain in your heart!  Listen, and forgive me.”

But she stopped him, putting her hand on his lips, and saying, all in a tremor,—­

“No, I do not wish to know any thing,—­nothing at all.  I believe in you.  Only you must remember that you are every thing to me,—­hope, life, happiness.  If you should have deceived me, I know but too well—­poor me!—­that I would not cease loving you; but I should not have long to suffer.”

Overcome with grief and affection, Jacques repeated,—­

“Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let me confess to you who this woman is, and why I must see her.”

“No,” she interrupted him, “no!  Do what your conscience bids you do.  I believe in you.”

And instead of offering to let him kiss her forehead, as usual, she hurried off with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so quickly, that, when he rushed after her, he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the end of the long passage.

Never until this moment had Jacques found it in his heart really to hate the Countess Claudieuse with that blind and furious hatred which dreams of nothing but vengeance.  Many a time, no doubt, he had cursed her in the solitude of his prison; but even when he was most furious against her, a feeling of pity had risen in his heart for her whom he had once loved so dearly; for he did not disguise it to himself, he had once loved her to distraction.  Even in his