ger. His eyes flashed wrath. That he, he should be treated thus! Never
had all the haughtiness of M. Galpin offended him half as much as this
cool, disdainful condescension on the part of M. Magloire. It occurred
to him to order him out of his room. But what then? He was condemned
to drain the bitter cup to the very dregs: for he must save himself; he
must get out of this abyss.

"You are cruel, Magloire," he said in a voice of ill-suppressed
indignation, "and you make me feel all the horrors of my situation to
the full. Ah, do not apologize! It does not matter. Let me speak."

He walked up and down a few times in his cell, passing his hand
repeatedly over his brow, as if to recall his memory. Then he began, in
a calmer tone of voice,--

"It was in the first days of the month of August, in 1866, and at
Boiscoran, where I was on a visit to my uncle, that I saw the Countess
Claudieuse for the first time. Count Claudieuse and my uncle were, at
that time, on very bad terms with each other, thanks to that unlucky
little stream which crosses our estates; and a common friend, M. de
Besson, had undertaken to reconcile them at a dinner to which he had
invited both. My uncle had taken me with him. The countess had come with
her husband. I was just twenty years old; she was twenty-six. When I saw
her, I was overcome. It seemed to me that I had never in all my life met
a woman so perfectly beautiful and graceful; that I had never seen so
charming a face, such beautiful eyes, and such a sweet smile.

"She did not seem to notice me. I did not speak to her; and still I felt
within me a kind of presentiment that this woman would play a great, a
fatal part in my life.

"This impression was so strong, that, as we left the house, I could not
keep from mentioning it to my uncle. He only laughed, and said that
I was a fool, and that, if my existence should ever be troubled by a
woman, it would certainly not be by the Countess Claudieuse.

"He was apparently right. It was hard to imagine that any thing should
ever again bring me in contact with the countess. M. de Besson's attempt
at reconciliation had utterly failed; the countess lived at Valpinson;
and I went back to Paris.

"Still I was unable to shake off the impression; and the memory of the
dinner at M. de Besson's house was still in my mind, when a month
later, at a party at my mother's brother's, M. de Chalusse, I thought
I recognized the Countess Claudieuse. It was she. I bow