—­Suzanne, dear Suzanne, do not be offended ...  I believed that you wished to terrify me ...  Ah, how lovely you are like this ...  Ah, it is a terrible misfortune.  We must guard against it.  And your father, does he suspect?

—­Not yet, sir, but the moment is approaching when I shall no longer be able to hide the truth.

—­It is true then.  What is to be done?  What is to be done?

—­Stop; you would make me laugh, if I did not pity you.  I am come to ask you, for the last time, if I ought to count upon you.

—­Count upon me?  But, my dear child, upon whom would you count if not upon me?  There is no doubt but that you have only me to count on.  I am your friend, your only friend.  Always the same, dear Suzanne.  I am ready for anything, in order to get you out of this scrape.  But judge yourself.  I am observed by all here, the slightest report would re-echo terribly and would ruin me.  I am surrounded by those who envy me and consequently are my enemies.  In a year or two, perhaps, I may be Grand-Vicar.  You see how careful I have to be of my position.  I will do everything, be well assured of it, it is my interest as well as yours, but I cannot do the impossible.  What do you ask?

—­You have a short memory, sir, but I remember, I remember with what infernal art you induced me, not to yield to you—­for you well know, and God is witness to it, that I yielded only to violence—­but to listen to you with a too trustful ear.  No, I see you do not remember it:  you have forgotten so many things that it would be lost time to try and refresh your memory.  You do not answer?  For in truth, sir, the parts are strangely altered, and if I am ashamed of it for myself, I blush still more for your sake.  But since you are so careful of your future and of your fortune, I am come to tell you this:  I am rich, sir, do not then fear anything, do not dread poverty; I have inherited from an aunt, who leaves me enough to provide me with a husband.  But what I want is a father for my child....

—­Mademoiselle, dear and fondly-loved Suzanne, yes, ever fondly-loved Suzanne, I am full of confusion and remorse; I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generous offer ... but ... can I accept it?  I make you the judge of it yourself.  Do I belong to myself?  I am the Church’s, bound from head to foot, body and soul; not a thought belongs to myself, I am but the infinitesimal portion of an immense wheel which carries me away in spite of myself.  How can I loosen myself from the gear?  Can I do it?  Can I defy such a scandal?  My honour, my dignity as a man....

—­Ah, you are appealing to your honour now ... but, sir, your duty, is not that your honour?  And what is your duty?  Stay, you are a wretch....

As she uttered these words, a young girl’s head, fair, charming, rosy looked inquisitively through the half-open door.  Suzanne saw it and grew pale.  Her brows contracted and a bitter smile passed across her lips.