who must be in his turn
irretrievably crushed in the sight of the woman whom he still hoped to
win!

De Marmont had no definite idea as to what he meant to do. Perhaps, just
at this moment, the pale, intangible shadow of Reason had lifted up one
corner of the veil that hid the truth from before his eyes--the absolute
and naked fact that Crystal de Cambray was not destined for him. She
would never marry him--never. The Empire of France was no more--the
Emperor was a fugitive. To St. Genis and his caste belonged the
future--and the turn had come for the adherents of the fallen Emperor to
sink into obscurity or to go into exile.

Be that as it may, it is certain that in this fateful moment de Marmont
was only conscious of an all-powerful overwhelming feeling of hatred and
the determination that whatever happened to himself he must and would
prevent St. Genis from ever approaching Crystal de Cambray with words of
love again. That he had the power to do this he was fully conscious.

"Crystal!" he called, and at the same time ordered the bearers to halt
on the doorstep for a moment. "Crystal, will you give me your hand in
farewell?"

The young girl would probably have complied with his wish, but St. Genis
interposed.

"Crystal," he said authoritatively, "your father has already called you.
You have done everything that Christian charity demands. . . ." And once
more he tried to draw the young girl away.

"Do not touch her, man," called de Marmont in a loud voice, "a coward
like you has no right to touch the hand of a good woman."

"M. de Marmont," broke in Crystal hotly, "you presume on your
helplessness. . . ."

"Pay no heed to the ravings of a maniac, Crystal," interposed St. Genis
calmly, "he has fallen so low now, that contemptuous pity is all that he
deserves."

"And contempt without pity is all that you deserve, M. le Marquis de St.
Genis," cried de Marmont excitedly. "Ask him, Mademoiselle Crystal, ask
him where is the man who to-day saved his life? whom I myself saw to-day
on the roadside, wounded and half dead with fatigue, on horseback, with
the inert body of M. de St. Genis lying across his saddle-bow. Ask him
how he came to lie across that saddle-bow? and whether his English
friend and mine, Bobby Clyffurde, did not--as any who passed by could
guess--drag him out of that hell at Waterloo and bring him into safety,
whilst risking his own life. Ask him," he continued, working himself up
into a veritable