And she had heard all; poor Gypsy had witnessed the passionate avowal of her lover, had heard him swear that he could never love any woman but Madeleine, that if his love were not reciprocated he would kill himself, as he had nothing else to live for.

Prosper could judge of her sufferings by his own.  For she was wounded not only in the present, but in the past.  What must be her humiliation and danger on hearing the miserable part which Prosper, in his disappointed love, had imposed upon her?

He was astonished that Gypsy—­violence itself—­remained silently weeping, instead of rising and bitterly denouncing him.

Meanwhile Madeleine had succeeded in recovering her usual calmness.

Slowly and almost unconsciously she had put on her bonnet and shawl, which were lying on the sofa.

Then she approached Prosper, and said: 

“Why did you come here?  We both have need of all the courage we can command.  You are unhappy, Prosper; I am more than unhappy, I am most wretched.  You have a right to complain:  I have not the right to shed a tear.  While my heart is slowly breaking, I must wear a smiling face.  You can seek consolation in the bosom of a friend:  I can have no confidant but God.”

Prosper tried to murmur a reply, but his pale lips refused to articulate; he was stifling.

“I wish to tell you,” continued Madeleine, “that I have forgotten nothing.  But oh! let not this knowledge give you any hope; the future is blank for us, but if you love me you will live.  You will not, I know, add to my already heavy burden of sorrow, the agony of mourning your death.  For my sake, live; live the life of a good man, and perhaps the day will come when I can justify myself in your eyes.  And now, oh, my brother, oh, my only friend, adieu! adieu!”

She pressed a kiss upon his brow, and rushed from the room, followed by Nina Gypsy.

Prosper was alone.  He seemed to be awaking from a troubled dream.  He tried to think over what had just happened, and asked himself if he were losing his mind, or whether he had really spoken to Madeleine and seen Gypsy?

He was obliged to attribute all this to the mysterious power of the strange man whom he had seen for the first time that very morning.

How did he gain this wonderful power of controlling events to suit his own purposes?

He seemed to have anticipated everything, to know everything.  He was acquainted with Cavaillon, he knew all Madeleine’s movements; he had made even Gypsy become humble and submissive.

Thinking all this, Prosper had reached such a degree of exasperation, that when M. Verduret entered the little parlor, he strode toward him white with rage, and in a harsh, threatening voice, said to him: 

“Who are you?”

The stout man did not show any surprise at this burst of anger, but quietly answered: 

“A friend of your father’s; did you not know it?”