“Really, have you divined as much?” he replied, with an ironical smile; “it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence!  You have spoken the truth.  You see, each of us has his part to play.  The wife deceives her husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order to close the comedy in a suitable manner—­proposes to run away with the wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his oratorical precautions.”

“You are going to fight!” she exclaimed, with the energy of despair.  “You are going to fight!  And for me—­unworthy and miserable creature that I am!  What have you done?  And is he not free to love?  I alone am the guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve punishment.  Do with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell; bring me poison, I will drink it.”

The Baron burst into sardonic laughter.

“So you are afraid that I shall kill, him?” said he, gazing at her intently, with his arms crossed upon his breast.

“I fear for you, for us all.  Do you think that I can live after causing blood to be shed?  If there must be a victim, take me—­or, at least, begin with me.  Have pity! tell me that you will not fight.”

“But think—­there is an even chance that you may be set free!” said he.

“Spare me!” she murmured, shivering with horror.

“It is a pity that blood must be shed, is it not?” said Bergenheim, in a mocking tone; “adultery would be pleasant but for that.  I am sure that you think me coarse and brutal to look upon your honor as a serious thing, when you do not do so yourself.”

“I entreat you!”

“I am the one who has to entreat you.  This astonishes you, does it not?—­While I live, I shall protect your reputation in spite of yourself; but if I die, try to guard it yourself.  Content yourself with having betrayed me; do not outrage my memory.  I am glad now that we have no children, for I should fear for them, and should feel obliged to deprive you of their care as much as lay in my power.  That is one trouble the less.  But as you bear my name, and I can not take it away from you, I beg of you do not drag it in the mire when I shall not be here to wash it for you.”

The young woman fell back upon her seat as if every fibre in her body had been successively torn to pieces.

“You crush me to the earth!” she said, feebly.

“This revolts you,” continued the husband, who seemed to choose the most cutting thrust; “you are young; this is your first error, you are not made for such adventures.  But rest assured, one becomes accustomed to everything.  A lover always knows how to find the most beautiful phrases with which to console a widow and vanquish her repugnances.”

“You are killing me,” she murmured, falling back almost unconscious in her chair.

Christian leaned over her, and, taking her by the arm, said in a low tone: