ed by what I have to
confess to you. I love you; I love you with all my heart, and the fear
of giving you pain grieves me more than what I have to tell you."

She turned pale, trembled, and asked: "What is it? Tell me quickly."

He said sadly but resolutely: "I am going to be married."

She sighed like one about to lose consciousness; then she gasped, but
did not speak.

He continued: "You cannot imagine how much I suffered before taking
that resolution. But I have neither position nor money. I am alone in
Paris, I must have near me some one who can counsel, comfort, and
support me. What I need is an associate, an ally, and I have found
one!" He paused, hoping that she would reply, expecting an outburst of
furious rage, reproaches, and insults. She pressed her hand to her
heart and breathed with difficulty. He took the hand resting on the arm
of the chair, but she drew it away and murmured as if stupefied: "Oh,
my God!"

He fell upon his knees before her, without, however, venturing to touch
her, more moved by her silence than he would have been by her anger.

"Clo, my little Clo, you understand my position. Oh, if I could have
married you, what happiness it would have afforded me! But you were
married! What could I do? Just think of it! I must make my way in the
world and I can never do so as long as I have no domestic ties. If you
knew. There are days when I should like to kill your husband." He spoke
in a low, seductive voice. He saw two tears gather in Mme. de Marelle's
eyes and trickle slowly down her cheeks. He whispered: "Do not weep,
Clo, do not weep, I beseech you. You break my heart."

She made an effort to appear dignified and haughty, and asked, though
somewhat unsteadily: "Who is it?"

For a moment he hesitated before he replied: "Madeleine Forestier!"

Mme. de Marelle started; her tears continued to flow. She rose. Duroy
saw that she was going to leave him without a word of reproach or
pardon, and he felt humbled, humiliated. He seized her gown and
implored:

"Do not leave me thus."

She looked at him with that despairing, tearful glance so charming and
so touching, which expresses all the misery pent-up in a woman's heart,
and stammered: "I have nothing--to say; I can do nothing. You--you are
right; you have made a good choice."

And disengaging herself she left the room.

With a sigh of relief at escaping so easily, he repaired to Mme.
Forestier's, who asked him: "Have you told Mme. de Ma