I am about to put within your reach the only aid which it is possible for me to offer you; it will at least give you a choice of unhappiness.  If you never see me again, to live with him will be a torture beyond your strength, perhaps, for you love me.  I do not know how to express my thoughts, and I dare not offer you advice or entreat you.  All that I feel is the necessity of telling you that my whole life belongs to you, that I am yours until death; but I hardly dare have the courage to lay at your feet the offering of a destiny already so sad, and which may soon be stained with blood.  A fatal necessity sometimes imposes actions which public opinion condemns, but the heart excuses, for it alone understands them.  Do not be angry at what you are about to read; never did words like these come out of a more desolate heart.  During the whole day a post-chaise will wait for you at the rear of the Montigny plateau; a fire lighted upon the rock which you can see from your room will notify you of its presence.  In a short time it can reach the Rhine.  A person devoted to you will accompany you to Munich, to the house of one of my relatives, whose character and position will assure you sufficient protection from all tyranny.  There, at least, you will be permitted to weep.  That is all that I can do for you.  My heart is broken when I think of the powerlessness of my love.  They say that when one crushes the scorpion which has wounded him, he is cured; even my death will not repair the wrong that I have done you; it will only be one grief the more.  Can you understand how desperate is the feeling which I experience now?  For months past, to be loved by you has been the sole desire of my heart, and now I must repent ever having attained it.  Out of pity for you, I ought to wish that you did love me with a love as perishable as my life, so that a remembrance of me would leave you in peace.  All this is so sad that I have not the courage to continue.  Adieu, Clemence!  Once more, one last time, I must say:  I love you! and yet, I dare not.  I feel unworthy to speak to you thus, for my love has become a disastrous gift.  Did I not ruin you?  The only word that seems to be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to his God:  pardon me!”

After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without saying a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.

“You see what he asks of you?” he said, after a rather long pause, as he observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim’s eyes wandered over this letter.

“My head is bewildered,” she replied, “I do not understand what he says—­Why does he speak of death?”

Christian’s lips curled disdainfully as he answered: 

“It does not concern you; one does not kill women.”

“They need it not to die,” replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband with wild, haggard eyes.

“Then you are going to fight?” she added, after a moment’s pause.