d me, and yet you loved
another."

"Alas, yes!" cried the poor girl; "alas, yes! I do love another; and
that other--oh! for Heaven's sake let me say it, Raoul, for it is my
only excuse--that other I love better than my own life, better than my
own soul even. Forgive my fault, or punish my treason, Raoul. I came
here in no way to defend myself, but merely to say to you: 'You know
what it is to love!'--in that case I love! I love to that degree that I
would give my life, my very soul, to the man I love. If he should ever
cease to love me, I shall die of grief and despair, unless Heaven come
to my assistance; unless Heaven does show pity upon me. Raoul, I came
here to submit myself to your will, whatever it might be--to die, if it
were your wish I should die. Kill me then, Raoul! if in your heart you
believe I deserve death."

"Take care, mademoiselle!" said Raoul; "the woman who invites death is
one who has nothing but her heart's blood to offer to her deceived and
betrayed lover."

"You are right," she said.

Raoul uttered a deep sigh, as he exclaimed, "And you love without being
able to forget!"

"I love without a wish to forget; without a wish ever to love any one
else," replied La Valliere.

"Very well," said Raoul. "You have said to me, in fact, all you had to
say; all I could possibly wish to know. And now, mademoiselle, it is I
who ask your forgiveness, for it is I who have almost been an obstacle
in your life; I, too, who have been wrong, for, in deceiving myself, I
helped to deceive you."

"Oh!" said La Valliere, "I do not ask you so much as that, Raoul."

"I only am to blame, mademoiselle," continued Raoul; "better informed
than yourself of the difficulties of this life, I should have
enlightened you. I ought not to have relied upon uncertainty; I ought
to have extracted an answer from your heart, while I hardly even sought
an acknowledgment from your lips. Once more, mademoiselle, it is I who
ask your forgiveness."

"Impossible, impossible!" she cried, "you are mocking me."

"How, impossible!"

"Yes, it is impossible to be good, and excellent, and perfect to such a
degree as that."

"Take care!" said Raoul, with a bitter smile, "for presently you may say
perhaps that I did not love you."

"Oh! you love me like an affectionate brother; let me hope that, Raoul."

"As a brother! undeceive yourself, Louise. I loved you as a lover--as a
husband, with the deepest, the truest, the fondest affection.