"I believe you--for I knew your heart. But how then did you explain my
silence?"

"I had justly offended you by my sudden departure, lady."

"Offended!--Alas! I never received your letter."

"And yet you know that I wrote to you, lady."

"Yes, my poor girl; I know, also, that you wrote to me at my porter's
lodge. Unfortunately, he delivered your letter to one of my women, named
Florine, telling her it came from you."

"Florine! the young woman that was so kind to me!"

"Florine deceived me shamefully; she was sold to my enemies, and acted as
a spy on my actions."

"She!--Good Heavens!" cried Mother Bunch. "Is it possible?"

"She herself," answered Adrienne, bitterly; "but, after all, we must pity
as well as blame her. She was forced to obey by a terrible necessity, and
her confession and repentance secured my pardon before her death."

"Then she is dead--so young! so fair!"

"In spite of her faults, I was greatly moved by her end. She confessed
what she had done, with such heart-rending regrets. Amongst her avowals,
she told me she had intercepted a letter, in which you asked for an
interview that might save your sister's life."

"It is true, lady; such were the terms of my letter. What interest had
they to keep it from you?"

"They feared to see you return to me, my good guardian angel. You loved
me so tenderly, and my enemies dreaded your faithful affection, so
wonderfully aided by the admirable instinct of your heart. Ah! I shall
never forget how well-deserved was the horror with which you were
inspired by a wretch whom I defended against your suspicions."

"M. Rodin?" said Mother Bunch, with a shudder.

"Yes," replied Adrienne; "but we will not talk of these people now. Their
odious remembrance would spoil the joy I feel in seeing you restored to
life--for your voice is less feeble, your cheeks are beginning to regain
a little color. Thank God! I am so happy to have found you once more;--if
you knew all that I hope, all that I expect from our reunion--for we will
not part again--promise me that, in the name of our friendship."

"I--your friend!" said Mother Bunch, timidly casting down her eyes.

"A few days before your departure from my house, did I not call you my
friend, my sister? What is there changed? Nothing, nothing," added Mdlle.
de Cardoville, with deep emotion. "One might say, on the contrary, that a
fatal resemblance in our positions renders your friendship even dearer to
me. And I sh