to Paris as I had intended, I made straight for N------, whither
Madame Pierson had gone.

I arrived at ten in the night. As soon as I reached the inn I had a boy
direct me to the house of her relatives, and, without reflecting what I
was doing, at once made my way to the spot. A servant opened the door.
I asked if Madame Pierson was there, and directed him to tell her that
some one wished to speak to her on the part of M. Desprez. That was the
name of our village cure.

While the servant was executing my order I remained alone in a sombre
little court; as it was raining, I entered the hall and stood at
the foot of the stairway, which was not lighted. Madame Pierson soon
arrived, preceding the servant; she descended rapidly, and did not
see me in the darkness; I stepped up to her and touched her arm. She
recoiled with terror and cried out:

"What do you wish of me?"

Her voice trembled so painfully and, when the servant appeared with a
light, her face was so pale, that I did not know what to think. Was
it possible that my unexpected appearance could disturb her in such a
manner? That reflection occurred to me, but I decided that it was merely
a feeling of fright natural to a woman who is suddenly touched.

Nevertheless, she repeated her question in a firmer tone.

"You must permit me to see you once more," I replied. "I will go away, I
will leave the country. You shall be obeyed, I swear it, and that beyond
your real desire, for I will sell my father's house and go abroad; but
that is only on condition that I am permitted to see you once more;
otherwise I remain; you need fear nothing from me, but I am resolved on
that."

She frowned and cast her eyes about her in a strange manner; then she
replied, almost graciously:

"Come to-morrow during the day and I will see you." Then she left me.

The next day at noon I presented myself. I was introduced into a room
with old hangings and antique furniture. I found her alone, seated on a
sofa. I sat down before her.

"Madame," I began, "I come neither to speak of what I suffer, nor to
deny that I love you. You have written me that what has passed between
us can not be forgotten, and that is true; but you say that on that
account we can not meet on the same footing as heretofore, and you are
mistaken. I love you, but I have not offended you; nothing is changed
in our relations since you do not love me. If I am permitted to see
you, responsibility rests with me, and as