reams--"

"Oh! dream when I shall be far from you; but, when I am at your feet,
when our hearts beat only for each other, do not evoke, lest you destroy
our present happiness, that which is beyond our power. Do you think
there are bonds which can more strongly unite us? Am I not yours? And
you, yourself, who speak of the gift of your heart, have you not given
it to me entirely?"

"Oh! yes, entirely! And it is but right, since I owe it to you. I did
not understand life until the day I received it from your eyes; since
that minute I have lived, and I can die. I love you! I fail to find
words to tell you one-tenth of what my heart contains, but I love you--"

He received her in his arms, where she took refuge so as to conceal her
face after these words. She remained thus for an instant, then arose
with a start, seized Octave's hands and pressed them in a convulsive
manner, saying in a voice as weak as a dying woman's:

"I am lost!"

He instinctively followed Clemence's gaze, which was fastened upon the
glass door. An almost imperceptible movement of the muslin curtain was
evident. At the same moment, there was a slight noise, a step upon
the carpet, the turning of the handle of the door, and it was silently
opened as if by a ghost.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE AGREEMENT

Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise, but her strength failed her, she
fell on her knees, and then dropped at her lover's feet. The latter
leaped from the divan with out trying to assist her, stepped over the
body stretched before him, and drew his poniard out of his pocket.

Christian stood upon the threshold of the door silent and motionless.

There was a moment of terrible silence. Only the eyes of the two men
spoke; those of the husband were fixed, dull, and implacable; those
of the lover sparkled with the audacity of despair. After a moment of
mutual fascination, the Baron made a movement as if to enter.

"One step more and you are a dead man!" exclaimed Gerfaut, in a low
voice, as he clutched the handle of his poniard.

Christian extended his hand, replying to this threat only by a look; but
such an imperative one that the thrust of a lance would not have been as
fearful to the lover. Octave put his poniard in its sheath, ashamed
of his emotion in the presence of such calm, and imitated his enemy's
scornful attitude.

"Come, Monsieur," said the latter, in a low voice, as he took a step
backward.

Instead of following his example, Gerfaut c