She fell upon her knees before him and dragged herself along the floor, striking her head upon it as if she wished to break it.  Christian raised her and seated her in the chair, in spite of her resistance.  She struggled in her husband’s arms, and the only words which she uttered were:  “I love him! kill me!  I love him! kill me!”

Her grief was so intense that Bergenheim really pitied her.

“You did not understand me,” he said, “he is not the man I killed.”

She became motionless, dumb.  He left her then, from a feeling of compassion, and returned to his seat.  They remained for some time seated in this way, one on each side of the fireplace; he, with his head leaning against the mantel; she, crouched in her chair with her face concealed behind her hands; only the striking of the clock interrupted this silence and lulled their gloomy thoughts with its monotonous vibrations.

A sharp, quick sound against one of the windows interrupted this sad scene.  Clemence arose suddenly as if she had received a galvanic shock; her frightened eyes met her husband’s.  He made an imperious gesture with his hand as if to order silence, and both listened attentively and anxiously.

The same noise was heard a second time.  A rattling against the blinds was followed by a dry, metallic sound, evidently caused by the contact of some body against the window.

“It is some signal,” said Christian in a low voice, as he looked at his wife.  “You probably know what it means.”

“I do not, I swear to you,” replied Clemence, her heart throbbing with a new emotion.

“I will tell you, then; he is there and he has something to say to you.  Rise and open the window.”

“Open the window?” said she, with a frightened look.

“Do what I tell you.  Do you wish him to pass the night under your window, so that the servants may see him?”

At this command, spoken in a severe tone, she arose.  Noticing that their shadows might be seen from the outside when the curtains were drawn, Bergenheim changed the candles to another place.  Clemence walked slowly toward the window; she had hardly opened it, when a purse fell upon the floor.

“Close it now,” said the Baron.  While his wife was quietly obeying, he picked up the purse, and opening it, took the following note from it: 

“I have ruined you—­you for whom I would gladly have died!  But of what use are regrets and despair now?  And my blood will not wipe away your tears.  Our position is so frightful that I tremble so speak of it.  I ought to tell you the truth, however, horrible as it may be.  Do not curse me, Clemence; do not impute to me this fatality, which obliges me thus to torture you.  In a few hours I shall have expiated the wrongs of my love, or you yourself may be free.  Free! pardon me for using this word; I know it is an odious one to you, but I am too troubled to find another.  Whatever happens,