“I did promise, mademoiselle, but——­”

He stopped.

“Oh, speak!”

“So many things have happened since that terrible day, that I think I am excusable in forgetting, for one hour, an oath torn from me in a moment of blind weakness.  It is to chance, at least to another will than my own, that I am indebted for the happiness of once more finding myself near you.  Alas! the instant I saw you my heart bounded with joy.  I did not think, no I could not think, that you would prove more pitiless than strangers have been, that you would cast me off when I am so miserable and heart-broken.”

Had not Prosper been so agitated he could have read in the eyes of Madeleine—­those beautiful eyes which had so long been the arbiters of his destiny—­the signs of a great inward struggle.

It was, however, in a firm voice that she replied: 

“You know me well enough, Prosper, to be sure than no blow can strike you without reaching me at the same time.  You suffer, I suffer with you:  I pity you as a sister would pity a beloved brother.”

“A sister!” said Prosper, bitterly.  “Yes, that was the word you used the day you banished me from your presence.  A sister!  Then why during three years did you delude me with vain hopes?  Was I a brother to you the day we went to Notre Dame de Fourvieres, that day when, at the foot of the altar, we swore to love each other for ever and ever, and you fastened around my neck a holy relic and said, ’Wear this always for my sake, never part from it, and it will bring you good fortune’?”

Madeleine attempted to interrupt him by a supplicating gesture:  he would not heed it, but continued with increased bitterness: 

“One month after that happy day—­a year ago—­you gave me back my promise, told me to consider myself free from any engagement, and never to come near you again.  If I could have discovered in what way I had offended you—­But no, you refused to explain.  You drove me away, and to obey you I told everyone that I had left you of my own accord.  You told me that an invincible obstacle had arisen between us, and I believed you, fool that I was!  The obstacle was your own heart, Madeleine.  I have always worn the medal; but it has not brought me happiness or good fortune.”

As white and motionless as a statue, Madeleine stood with bowed head before this storm of passionate reproach.

“I told you to forget me,” she murmured.

“Forget!” exclaimed Prosper, excitedly, “forget!  Can I forget!  Is it in my power to stop, by an effort of will, the circulation of my blood?  Ah, you have never loved!  To forget, as to stop the beatings of the heart, there is but one means—­death!”

This word, uttered with the fixed determination of a desperate, reckless man, caused Madeleine to shudder.

“Miserable man!” she exclaimed.