of some change meeting, or some exchange of looks between De la Marche and myself that he may fancy he has detected; a breath of air perhaps!  What is to be done?  Were I to grieve, would my tears wash away the past?  We cannot tear out a single page of our lives; but we can throw the book into the fire.  Though I should weep from night till morn, would that prevent Destiny from having, in a fit of ill-humour, taken me out hunting, sent me astray in the woods, and made me stumble across a Mauprat, who led me to his den, where I escaped dishonour and perhaps death only by binding my life forever to that of a savage who had none of my principles, and who probably (and who undoubtedly, I should say) never will have them?  All this is a misfortune.  I was in the full sunlight of a happy destiny; I was the pride and joy of my old father; I was about to marry a man I esteem and like; no sorrows, no fears had come near my path; I knew neither days fraught with danger nor nights bereft of sleep.  Well, God did not wish such a beautiful life to continue; His will be done.  There are days when the ruin of all my hopes seems to me so inevitable that I look upon myself as dead and my fiance as a widower.  If it were not for my poor father, I should really laugh at it all; for I am so ill built for vexation and fears that during the short time I have known them they have already tired me of life.”

“This courage is heroic, but it is also terrible,” cried the abbe, in a broken voice.  “It is almost a resolve to commit suicide, Edmee.”

“Oh, I shall fight for my life,” she answered, with warmth; “but I shall not stand haggling with it a moment if my honour does not come forth safe and sound from all these risks.  No; I am not pious enough ever to accept a soiled life by way of penance for sins of which I never had a thought.  If God deals so harshly with me that I have to choose between shame and death . . .”

“There can never be any shame for you, Edmee; a soul so chaste, so pure in intention . . .”

“Oh, don’t talk of that, dear abbe!  Perhaps I am not as good as you think; I am not very orthodox in religion—­nor are you, abbe!  I give little heed to the world; I have no love for it.  I neither fear nor despise public opinion; it will never enter into my life.  I am not very sure what principle of virtue would be strong enough to prevent me from falling, if the spirit of evil took me in hand.  I have read La Nouvelle Heloise, and I shed many tears over it.  But, because I am a Mauprat and have an unbending pride, I will never endure the tyranny of any man—­the violence of a lover no more than a husband’s blow; only a servile soul and a craven character may yield to force that which it refuses to entreaty.  Sainte Solange, the beautiful shepherdess, let her head be cut off rather than submit to the seigneur’s rights.  And you know that from mother to daughter the Mauprats have been consecrated in baptism to the protection of the patron saint of Berry.”