in," he said, and Lucille entered. He
started in some confusion, and would have taken her hand, but she gently
repulsed him. She took a seat opposite to him, and looking down, thus
addressed him:--

"My dear Eugene, that is, Monsieur St. Amand, I have something on my
mind that I think it better to speak at once; and if I do not exactly
express what I would wish to say, you must not be offended with Lucille:
it is not an easy matter to put into words what one feels deeply."
Colouring, and suspecting something of the truth, St. Amand would have
broken in upon her here; but she with a gentle impatience motioned him
to be silent, and continued:--

"You know that when you once loved me, I used to tell you that you would
cease to do so could you see how undeserving I was of your attachment. I
did not deceive myself, Eugene; I always felt assured that such would be
the case, that your love for me necessarily rested on your affliction.
But for all that I never at least had a dream or a desire but for your
happiness; and God knows, that if again, by walking barefooted, not to
Cologne, but to Rome--to the end of the world--I could save you from a
much less misfortune than that of blindness, I would cheerfully do it;
yes, even though I might foretell all the while that, on my return, you
would speak to me coldly, think of me lightly, and that the penalty to
me would--would be--what it has been!" Here Lucille wiped a few natural
tears from her eyes. St. Amand, struck to the heart, covered his
face with his hands, without the courage to interrupt her. Lucille
continued:--

"That which I foresaw has come to pass; I am no longer to you what I
once was, when you could clothe this poor form and this homely face with
a beauty they did not possess. You would wed me still, it is true; but I
am proud, Eugene, and cannot stoop to gratitude where I once had love.
I am not so unjust as to blame you; the change was natural, was
inevitable. I should have steeled myself more against it; but I am now
resigned. We must part; you love Julie--that too is natural--and _she_
loves you; ah! what also more in the probable course of events? Julie
loves you, not yet, perhaps, so much as I did; but then she has not
known you as I have, and she whose whole life has been triumph cannot
feel the gratitude that I felt at fancying myself loved; but this will
come--God grant it! Farewell, then, forever, dear Eugene; I leave you
when you no longer want me; you