peaking to herself,--

"But have I a right to complain? I reap as I have sown. Alas! Thorn has
told me so often enough, and I would not believe him. I was not twenty
years old when I came to Paris, after my poor father's death. I had been
brought up in America, where young girls know no other law but that of
their own consciences. They tell us at home, all the time, that it is
our first duty to be truthful. In France, young girls are taught that
hypocrisy is their first duty. We are taught not to blush, except
when we have done wrong; they are taught all the appearances of false
prudishness. In France, they work hard to save appearances; with us,
we aim at reality. In Philadelphia, I did every thing I chose to do,
provided I did not think it was wrong. I thought I could do the same
here. Poor me! I did not count upon the wickedness of the world. I went
out alone, on horseback, in the morning. I went alone to church, to pray
to God. If I wanted any thing for my toilet, I sent for the carriage,
and drove out, alone, to buy it. When a man spoke to me, I did not feel
bound to cast down my eyes; and, if he was amusing and witty, I laughed.
If a new fashion pleased me, I adopted it. I committed all these crimes.
I was young, rich, popular. These were as many more crimes. And after I
had been here a year, they said that Malgat, that wretch"--

She jumped up as she said this, ran up to Daniel, and, seizing him by
the hands, she said,--

"Malgat! Have they talked to you about Malgat?"

And, as he hesitated to answer, she added:--

"Ah, answer me! Don't you see that your hesitation is an insult?"

"Well--yes."

As if in utter despair, she raised her hands to heaven, calling God, as
it were, to witness, and asking for inspiration from on high. Then she
added suddenly,--

"But I have proofs, irrefutable proofs of Malgat's rascality."

And, without waiting for another word, she hurried into the adjoining
room. Daniel, moved to the bottom of his heart, remained standing where
he was, immovable, like a statue.

He was utterly confounded and overcome by the charm of that marvellous
voice, which passed through the whole gamut of passion with such a
sonorous ring, and yet with such sweet languor, that it seemed by turns
to sob and to threaten, to sigh with sadness and to thunder with wrath.

"What a woman!" he said to himself, repeating thus unconsciously the
words uttered by M. de Brevan.

"What a woman! And how well she d