Amazed at the silence and conduct of the Bacchanal Queen, Jacques looked at her with increasing agitation; suddenly he stammered out with trembling lips, “Cephyse, I know you.  If you do not take my hand, it is because—­”

Then, his voice failing, he added, in a dull tone, after a moment’s silence, “When, six weeks ago, I was taken to prison, did you not say to me, ’Jacques, I swear that I will work—­and if need be, live in horrible misery—­but I will live true!’ That was your promise.  Now, I know you never speak false; tell me you have kept your word, and I shall believe you.”

Cephyse only answered by a heart-rending sob, as she pressed the knees of Jacques against her heaving bosom.  By a strange contradiction, more common than is generally thought—­this man, degraded by intoxication and debauchery, who, since he came out of prison, had plunged in every excess, and tamely yielded to all the fatal incitements of Morok, yet received a fearful blow, when he learned, by the mute avowal of Cephyse, the infidelity, of this creature, whom he had loved in spite of degradation.  The first impulse of Jacques was terrible.  Notwithstanding his weakness and exhaustion, he succeeded in rising from his seat, and, with a countenance contracted by rage and despair, he seized a knife, before they had time to prevent him, and turned it upon Cephyse.  But at the moment he was about to strike, shrinking from an act of murder, he hurled the knife far away from him, and falling back into the chair, covered his face with his hands.

At the cry of Ninny Moulin, who had, though late, thrown himself upon Jacques to take away the knife, Cephyse raised her head:  Jacques’s woeful dejection wrung her heart; she rose, and fell upon his neck, notwithstanding his resistance, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs, “Jacques, if you knew! if you only knew—­listen—­do not condemn me without hearing me—­I will tell you all, I swear to you—­without falsehood—­this man,” and she pointed to Morok, “will not dare deny what I say; he came, and told me to have the courage to—­”

“I do not reproach you.  I have no right to reproach you.  Let me die in peace.  I ask nothing but that now,” said Jacques, in a still weaker voice, as he repulsed Cephyse.  Then he added, with a grievous and bitter smile, “Luckily, I have my dose.  I knew—­what I was doing—­when I accepted the duel with brandy.”

“No, you shall not die, and you shall hear me,” cried Cephyse, with a bewildered air; “you shall hear me, and everybody else shall hear me.  They shall see that it is not my fault.  Is it not so, gentlemen?  Do I not deserve pity?  You will entreat Jacques to forgive me; for if driven by misery—­finding no work—­I was forced to this—­not for the sake of any luxury—­you see the rags I wear—­but to get bread and shelter for my poor, sick sister—­dying, and even more miserable than myself—­would you not have pity upon me?  Do you think one finds pleasure