Vautrot rose.  He was livid.

“Madame la Comtesse,” he said, bitterly, “the love of a great heart never can be an offence.  Mine at least would have been sincere; mine would have been faithful:  mine would not have been an infamous snare!”

The emphasis of these words displayed so evident an intention, the countenance of the young woman changed immediately.  She moved uneasily on her fauteuil.

“What do you mean, Monsieur Vautrot?”

“Nothing, Madame, which you do not know, I think,” he replied, meaningly.

She rose.

“You shall explain your meaning immediately to me, Monsieur!” she exclaimed; “or later, to my husband.”

“But your sadness, your tears,” cried the secretary, in a tone of admirable sincerity—­“these made me sure you were not ignorant of it!”

“Of what?  You hesitate!  Speak, man!”

“I am not a wretch!  I love you and pity you!—­that is all;” and Vautrot sighed deeply.

“And why do you pity me?” She spoke haughtily; and though Vautrot had never suspected this imperiousness of manner or of language, he reflected hurriedly on the point at which he had arrived.  More sure than ever of success, after a moment he took from his pocket a folded letter.  It was one with which he had provided himself to confirm the suspicions of the Countess, now awakened for the first time.

In profound silence he unfolded and handed it to her.  She hesitated a moment, then seized it.  A single glance recognized the writing, for she had often exchanged notes with the Marquise de Campvallon.

Words of the most burning passion terminated thus: 

“—­Always a little jealous of Mary; half vexed at having given her to you.  For—­she is pretty and—­but I!  I am beautiful, am I not, my beloved?—­and, above all, I adore you!”

At the first word the Countess became fearfully pale.  Finishing, she uttered a deep groan; then she reread the letter and returned it to Vautrot, as if unconscious of what she was doing.

For a few seconds she remained motionless—­petrified—­her eyes fixed on vacancy.  A world seemed rolling down and crushing her heart.

Suddenly she turned, passed with rapid steps into her boudoir; and Vautrot heard the sound of opening and shutting drawers.  A moment after she reappeared with bonnet and cloak, and crossed the boudoir with the same strong and rapid step.

Vautrot, greatly terrified, rushed to stop her.

“Madame!” he cried, throwing himself before her.

She waved him aside with an imperious gesture of her hand; he trembled and obeyed, and she left the boudoir.  A moment later she was in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, going toward Paris.

It was now near midnight; cold, damp April weather, with the rain falling in great drops.  The few pedestrians still on the broad pavement turned to follow with their eyes this majestic young woman, whose gait seemed hastened by some errand of life or death.