Could this wretched woman crouching at his feet be his beloved Valentine, the pure, innocent girl whom he had found secluded in the chateau of La Verberie, who had never loved any other than himself?  Could this be the cherished wife whom he had worshipped for so many years?

The memory of his lost happiness was too much for the stricken man.  He forgot the present in the past, and was almost melted to forgiveness.

“Unhappy woman,” he murmured, “unhappy woman!  What have I done that you should thus betray me?  Ah, my only fault was loving you too deeply, and letting you see it.  One wearies of everything in this world, even happiness.  Did pure domestic joys pall upon you, and weary you, driving you to seek the excitement of a sinful passion?  Were you so tired of the atmosphere of respect and affection which surrounded you, that you must needs risk your honor and mine by braving public opinion?  Oh, into what an abyss you have fallen, Valentine! and, oh, my God! if you were wearied by my constant devotion, had the thought of your children no power to restrain your evil passions; could you not remain untarnished for their sake?”

M. Fauvel spoke slowly, with painful effort, as if each word choked him.

Raoul, who listened with attention, saw that if the banker knew some things, he certainly did not know all.

He saw that erroneous information had misled the unhappy man, and that he was still a victim of false appearances.

He determined to convince him of the mistake under which he was laboring, and said: 

“Monsieur, I hope you will listen.”

But the sound of Raoul’s voice was sufficient to break the charm.

“Silence!” cried the banker with an angry oath, “silence!”

For some moments nothing was heard but the sobs of Mme. Fauvel.

“I came here,” continued the banker, “with the intention of killing you both.  But I cannot kill a woman, and I will not kill an unarmed man.”

Raoul once more tried to speak.

“Let me finish!” interrupted M. Fauvel.  “Your life is in my hands; the law excuses the vengeance of an injured husband; but I refuse to take advantage of it.  I see on your mantel a revolver similar to mine; take it, and defend yourself.”

“Never!”

“Defend yourself!” cried the banker raising his arm, “if you do not—­”

Feeling the barrel of M. Fauvel’s revolver touch his breast, Raoul in self-defence seized his own pistol, and prepared to fire.

“Stand in that corner of the room, and I will stand in this,” continued the banker; “and when the clock strikes, which will be in a few seconds, we will both fire.”

They took the places designated, and stood perfectly still.

But the horror of the scene was too much for Mme. Fauvel to witness any longer without interposing.  She understood but one thing:  her son and her husband were about to kill each other before her very eyes.  Fright and horror gave her strength to start up and rush between the two men.