inette had taken back the heart that she had given away
so easily; he did not suspect that miracles can be wrought by contempt.
In the middle ages people believed in golems, figures in clay of an
entrancing beauty, which had all the appearance of life. Under a lock of
hair was written, in Hebrew characters, on their brow, the word "Truth."
If they chanced to lie, the word was obliterated; they lost all their
charm, the clay was no longer anything but clay.

Mlle. Moriaz divined Samuel Brohl's thought; she exclaimed: "The man I
loved was he whose history you related to me."

He would have liked to kill her, so that she never should belong to
another. Behind Antoinette, not twenty steps distant, he descried
the curb of a well, and grew dizzy at the sight. He discovered, with
despair, that he was not made of the stuff for crime. He dropped down on
his knees in the grass, and cried, "If you will not pardon me, nothing
remains for me but to die!" She stood motionless and impassive. She
repeated between her teeth Camille Langis's phrase: "I am waiting until
this great comedian has finished playing his piece."

He rose and started to run towards the well. She was in front of him and
barred the passage, but at the same moment she felt two hands clasp
her waist, and the breath of two lips that sought her lips and that
murmured, "You love me still, since you do not want me to die."

She struggled with violence and horror; she succeeded, by a frantic
effort, in disengaging herself from his grasp. She fled towards the
house. Samuel Brohl rushed after her in mad pursuit; he was just
reaching her, when he suddenly stopped. He had caught sight of M.
Langis, hurrying from out a thicket, where he had been hidden. Growing
uneasy, he had approached the orchard through a path concealed by the
heavy foliage. Antoinette, out of breath, ran to him, gasping, "Camille,
save me from this man!" and she threw herself into his arms, which
closed about her with delight. He felt her sink; she would have fallen
had he not supported her.

At the same instant a menacing voice saluted him with the words,
"Monsieur, we will meet again!"

"To-day, if you will," he replied.

Antoinette's wild excitement had given place to insensibility; she
neither saw nor heard; her limbs no longer sustained her. Camille had
great difficulty in bringing her to the house; she could not ascend the
steps of the terrace; he was obliged to carry her. Mlle. Moiseney saw