For the rest, Madame," he went on, eyeing her cynically, "you surprise me! You, whose modesty and virtue are so great, would corrupt your husband, would sell yourself, would dishonour the love of which you boast so loudly, the love that only God gives!" He laughed derisively as he quoted her words.

"Ay, and, after showing at how low a price you hold yourself, you still look, I doubt not, to me to respect you, and to keep my word.

Madame!" in a terrible voice, "do not play with fire! You saved my letters, it is true! And for that, for this time, you shall go free, if God will help me to let you go! But tempt me not! Tempt me not!" he repeated, turning from her and turning back again with a gesture of despair, as if he mistrusted the strength of the restraint which he put upon himself.

"I am no more than other men! Perhaps I am less.

And you--you who prate of love, and know not what love is--could love! could love!" He stopped on that word as if the word choked him--stopped, struggling with his passion.