disastrous gift. Did I not ruin you? The only word that seems to
be permissible is the one that even a murderer dares to address to
his God: pardon me!"

After reading this, the Baron passed the letter to his wife without
saying a word, and resumed his sombre attitude.

"You see what he asks of you?" he said, after a rather long pause, as
he observed the dazed way in which Madame de Bergenheim's eyes wandered
over this letter.

"My head is bewildered," she replied, "I do not understand what he
says--Why does he speak of death?"

Christian's lips curled disdainfully as he answered:

"It does not concern you; one does not kill women."

"They need it not to die," replied Clemence, who gazed at her husband
with wild, haggard eyes.

"Then you are going to fight?" she added, after a moment's pause.

"Really, have you divined as much?" he replied, with an ironical smile;
"it is a wonderful thing how quick is your intelligence! You have spoken
the truth. You see, each of us has his part to play. The wife deceives
her husband; the husband fights with the lover, and the lover in order
to close the comedy in a suitable manner--proposes to run away with the
wife, for that is the meaning of his letter, notwithstanding all his
oratorical precautions."

"You are going to fight!" she exclaimed, with the energy of despair.
"You are going to fight! And for me--unworthy and miserable creature
that I am! What have you done? And is he not free to love? I alone
am the guilty one, I alone have offended you, and I alone deserve
punishment. Do with me what you will; shut me up in a convent or a cell;
bring me poison, I will drink it."

The Baron burst into sardonic laughter.

"So you are afraid that I shall kill, him?" said he, gazing at her
intently, with his arms crossed upon his breast.

"I fear for you, for us all. Do you think that I can live after causing
blood to be shed? If there must be a victim, take me--or, at least,
begin with me. Have pity! tell me that you will not fight."

"But think--there is an even chance that you may be set free!" said he.

"Spare me!" she murmured, shivering with horror.

"It is a pity that blood must be shed, is it not?" said Bergenheim, in
a mocking tone; "adultery would be pleasant but for that. I am sure
that you think me coarse and brutal to look upon your honor as a serious
thing, when you do not do so yourself."

"I entreat you!"

"I am the one who has to entreat you. This