owing to
the suspense and anxiety he had endured; sleep would not come to his
bed, and the pangs of remorse tortured him continually.

"Enough," cried Diana, stamping her foot angrily on the ground. "Enough,
I say."

"Well, mademoiselle, I can no longer remain here. I am far too nervous,
and I wish to go to some foreign country."

"Come, let me hear the real meaning of this long preface."

Thus adjured, Daumon spoke. He only wished for some little memento
to cheer his days and nights of exile, some little recognition of his
services; in fact, such a sum as would bring him in an income of three
thousand francs.

"I understand you," replied Diana. "You wish to be paid for what you
call your kindness."

"Ah, mademoiselle!"

"And you put a value of sixty thousand francs upon it; that is rather a
high price, is it not?"

"Alas! it is not half what this unhappy business has cost me."

"Nonsense; your demand is preposterous."

"Demand!" returned he; "I make no demand. I come to you respectfully
and with a little charity. If I were to demand, I should come to you in
quite a different manner. I should say, 'Pay me such and such a sum,
or I tell everything.' What have I to lose if the whole story comes to
light? A mere nothing. I am a poor man, and am growing old. You and M.
Norbert are the ones that have something to fear. You are noble, rich,
and young, and a happy future lies before you."

Diana paused and thought for an instant.

"You are speaking," answered she at last, "in a most foolish manner.
When charges are made against people, proofs must be forthcoming."

"Quite right, mademoiselle; but can you say that these proofs are not in
my hands? Should you, however, desire to buy them, you are at liberty to
do so. I give you the first option, and yet you grumble."

As he spoke, he drew a battered leather pocket-book from his breast,
and took from it a paper, which, after having been crumpled, had been
carefully smoothed out again. Diana glanced at it, and then uttered a
stifled cry of rage and fear, for she at once recognized her last letter
to Norbert.

"That wretch, Francoise, has betrayed me," exclaimed she, "and I saved
her mother from a death by hunger and cold."

The Counsellor held out the letter to her. She thought that he had no
suspicion of her, and made an attempt to snatch it from him; but he was
on his guard, and drew back with a sarcastic smile on his face.

"No, mademoiselle," said he; "th