“You cannot love me, for I am unworthy of you.  Do not urge me.  Do not make promises.  Let us say good-by.  At least I must first tell you of my story, for I am one of those women whom no one ever marries.”

Gambetta brushed aside her pleadings.  He begged that he might see her soon.  Little by little she consented; but she would not see him at her house.  She knew that his enemies were many and that everything he did would be used against him.  In the end she agreed to meet him in the park at Versailles, near the Petit Trianon, at eight o’clock in the morning.

When she had made this promise he left her.  Already a new inspiration had come to him, and he felt that with this woman by his side he could accomplish anything.

At the appointed hour, in the silence of the park and amid the sunshine of the beautiful morning, the two met once again.  Gambetta seized her hands with eagerness and cried out in an exultant tone: 

“At last!  At last!  At last!”

But the woman’s eyes were heavy with sorrow, and upon her face there was a settled melancholy.  She trembled at his touch and almost shrank from him.  Here was seen the impetuosity of the meridional.  He had first spoken to this woman only two days before.  He knew nothing of her station, of her surroundings, of her character.  He did not even know her name.  Yet one thing he knew absolutely—­that she was made for him and that he must have her for his own.  He spoke at once of marriage; but at this she drew away from him still farther.

“No,” she said.  “I told you that you must not speak to me until you have heard my story.”

He led her to a great stone bench near by; and, passing his arm about her waist, he drew her head down to his shoulder as he said: 

“Well, tell me.  I will listen.”

Then this girl of twenty-four, with perfect frankness, because she was absolutely loyal, told him why she felt that they must never see each other any more-much less marry and be happy.  She was the daughter of a colonel in the French army.  The sudden death of her father had left her penniless and alone.  Coming to Paris at the age of eighteen, she had given lessons in the household of a high officer of the empire.  This man had been attracted by her beauty, and had seduced her.

Later she had secured the means of living modestly, realizing more deeply each month how dreadful had been her fate and how she had been cut off from the lot of other girls.  She felt that her life must be a perpetual penance for what had befallen her through her ignorance and inexperience.  She told Gambetta that her name was Leonie Leon.  As is the custom of Frenchwomen who live alone, she styled herself madame.  It is doubtful whether the name by which she passed was that which had been given to her at baptism; but, if so, her true name has never been disclosed.

When she had told the whole of her sad story to Gambetta he made nothing of it.  She said to him again: