pplies there
were hours of horror--scenes in which rage and accusation were succeeded
by storms of tears and tempestuous self-reproach. On one such occasion
Paul sat in his study, for the moment oblivious of the world. His
dissipation and his best relief from the cares which beset him was
labour, and he laboured hard. It was his fashion at this time to stand
at his desk--a rude thing built for him by the village carpenter--and in
the pauses which came in between his actual spells of writing, to stride
about his limited territory, enacting the scenes he was striving to
portray, and shaping his sentences in such an impassioned undertone as
an actor will employ in the study of a part. He was at the limit of
his walk from the window, thus engaged, when the door was violently and
without warning broken open in such fashion that its edge struck him on
the face. Here was Annette, blazing with some newly-discovered injury,
and Paul at once recognised the ancient and too-well-remembered
symptoms. The contrabandists had got through again, and this time with
a vengeance. When he could gather his scattered wits--the blow in itself
had been a shrewd thing--he found that he was being stormily assailed in
respect of an amour with the cook of the Hotel of the Three Friends, a
highly respectable person of fifty summers and a waist of sixty inches
in circumference. He closed the door, and, mopping his injured nose,
invited Annette to a seat.

'Talk lower, dear,' he asked her. 'It shall be perfectly understood
between us that I deserve all your reproaches, but don't give the poor,
dear old cook away, or, if you must assail her, speak in English.'

'That is your ring,' said Annette. She drew her wedding-ring from her
finger and cast it to the floor. 'I have done with you for ever; you are
a traitor and a villain.'

Paul stooped for the ring as it rolled to his feet, and bestowed it in
his pocket.

'You and Laurent,' cried Annette, 'have conspired to kill me. Oh, I know
you both! but if there is justice in earth or heaven, I will have it Do
not think because I am a woman and alone that I can find no protector. I
am not so helpless as you fancy.'

'I am very busy, dear,' Paul answered in a cold desperation, 'and we
might discuss these important questions at another moment.'

'Oh,' cried Annette, 'anything to avoid the truth!'

'Yes,' said Paul, with the first flush of anger he had permitted
himself, 'anything to avoid the truth--anyt