“Like the woman yonder.” cried Adrienne, with a still wilder look, as she slowly raised her arm towards the window that was visible on the other side of the building.

“Why—­yes,” said M. Baleinier.  “Like you, unhappy child, those women were young, fair, and sensible, but like you, alas! they had in them the fatal germ of insanity, which, not having been destroyed in time, grew, and grew, larger and ever larger, until it overspread and destroyed their reason.”

“Oh, mercy!” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose head was getting confused with terror; “mercy! do not tell me such things!—­I am afraid.  Take me from this place—­oh! take me from this place!” she added, with a heartrending accent; “for, if I remain here, I shall end by going mad!  No,” added she, struggling with the terrible agony which assailed her, “no, do not hope it!  I shall not become mad.  I have all my reason.  I am not blind enough to believe what you tell me.  Doubtless, I live differently from others; think differently from others; am shocked by things that do not offend others; but what does all this prove?  Only that I am different from others.  Have I a bad heart?  Am I envious or selfish?  My ideas are singular, I knew—­yes, I confess it—­but then, M. Baleinier, is not their tendency good, generous, noble!—­Oh!” cried Adrienne’s supplicating voice, while her tears flowed abundantly, “I have never in my life done one malicious action; my worst errors have arisen from excess of generosity.  Is it madness to wish to see everybody about one too happy?  And again, if you are mad, you must feel it yourself—­and I do not feel it—­and yet—­I scarcely know—­you tell me such terrible things of those two women!  You ought to know these things better than I. But then,” added Mdlle, de Cardoville, with an accent of the deepest despair, “something ought to have been done.  Why, if you felt an interest for me, did you wait so long?  Why did you not take pity on me sooner?  But the most frightful fact is, that I do not know whether I ought to believe you—­for all this may be a snare—­but no, no! you weep—­it is true, then!—­you weep!” She looked anxiously at M. Baleinier, who, notwithstanding his cynical philosophy, could not restrain his tears at the sight of these nameless tortures.

“You weep over me,” she continued; “so it is true!  But (good heaven!) must there not be something done?  I will do all that you wish—­all—­so that I may not be like those women.  But if it should be too late? no, it is not too late—­say it is not too late, my good M. Baleinier!  Oh, now I ask your pardon for what I said when you came in—­but then I did not know, you see—­I did not know!”

To these few broken words, interrupted by sobs, and rushing forth in a sort of feverish excitement, succeeded a silence of some minutes, during which the deeply affected physician dried his tears.  His resolution had almost failed him.  Adrienne hid her face in her hands.  Suddenly she again lifted her head; her countenance was calmer than before, though agitated by a nervous trembling.