An exquisite landscape lay before Paul as he hurried to the villa—forests, mountains and rocks—the beautiful sea, bounding the horizon on three sides; but he saw nothing of it. He hurried along, his whole frame trembling with excitement. What should he say to Odette? What would she reply? Did she love him? He did not know. He knew that she enjoyed his society; but, what did that signify? He knew she was proud—disdainful, even—finding it impossible to dissemble in the least; not at all a flirt, she studiously avoided anything leading to a declaration of love, which is the delight of most women. Therefore, he had some slight grounds for hope; but, as he had carefully avoided anything like love-making—knowing himself so poor—he was completely ignorant of the state of her heart. But he worshiped her so devoutly; his faith in her was so sublime; his love so inexpressibly tender, he felt she must love him in return.

All this time, Corinne Descoutures had been dreaming languidly by the open window. She was disturbed in her revery by the sound of a bell, and glancing around, she saw Paul coming up the steps. "Oh, joy! it is he!" But she was in despair that she was not dressed to the best advantage. Of course, he had come to "declare his passion." She rushed to the mirror in the hall, straightened one of her eye-brows, and, in less than a second, was back in her arm-chair, still languidly dreaming. As Paul came in she noticed his exceeding pallor. "What an interesting young man! He seemed deeply agitated," she thought. In fact, he was agitated. He wanted to see Odette, of course; and, how could he make Mme. Descoutures understand that he wished her to go away, and send Odette to him. Corinne opened hostilities. She leaned her head languishingly to one side, like a sick canary, and said plaintively: "I hope you are quite well, M. Frager."

"Very well, indeed, thank you."

Pause.

Mme. Descoutures continued still more plaintively: "You have suffered much, have you not, dear friend?"

Second pause.

This time he did not understand her. Why should this dried-up old woman ask him such a question as that? Corinne mistook the young man's astonishment for emotion. She was touched, and, for the first time in her life, spoke simply and cordially.

"Excuse me," she said, "for speaking so to you; but Odette and I have often spoken together about you, and always with the greatest interest—so young, so solitary, separated from your family—"

Paul thought he understood. Mme. Descoutures wished to indicate to him that Odette was expecting some day a proposal from him; besides, he had never mentioned his mother's second marriage to any of his friends—always calling her Mme. Frager; so, thinking his suit encouraged by Odette's friend, he said with sincere gratitude: "I thank you for your great kindness, Madame. My life, indeed, has not been very happy; but, since you give me hope—" Corinne's features had already assumed an expression of startled modesty, like Psyche surprised by Cupid, when the door opened, and Odette came in. "Ah! M. Frager," holding out her hand to him, "I am so glad to see you. I was just wishing to give you a little errand in the village."

Corinne's first thought was a wish for Odette's total annihilation; her second, to bless her. Of course, she interrupted them at a most interesting crisis; but still, she could entertain Paul for a few minutes, while Corinne could slip away, change her dress, and reappear in all her war-paint and feathers, when they could resume their conversation at the point where they had left off.

"I leave you with Odette; but, if you will be so kind as to wait for me, I will soon return."

Odette and Paul were alone.

"If you will take the trouble to buy me a—"

"Forgive me for interrupting you," said Paul; "but, I am afraid I could not pay any attention to your commission just now. I want to speak to you on a very serious subject, and I implore you to listen to me."

She glanced at him, saw his pallor and agitation, and understood him immediately. Her eyes looked almost contemptuous as she seemed to think: "What a pity! Another man in love with me; and he was such a pleasant friend!"

Paul continued: "You must have noticed the happiness it has always given me to be with you. Family reasons have prevented my explaining myself before; now, they are at an end, and I come to you boldly, to say I love you."

She sat quietly opposite him, playing carelessly with the fringe of the parasol in her hand.

Paul continued passionately: "I adore the very trifles you have touched. Believe me, this has been in my mind from the first hour I ever saw you. I address myself to you, rather than to your father, as I know your choice will have his approval."

Odette leaned back in her chair, crossed her hands on her lap, and, in a calm tone, with a slight, contemptuous inflection, said: "Your proposal is a great compliment, sir. As such, I thank you, as I thank all who come to me on the same errand. But I must reply as I have replied to those who have done me so much honor: I do not wish to marry."

There was no chance to mistake her calm, convincing reply. Paul saw his hopes utterly annihilated. His fall was the more complete, as he had felt himself encouraged in his pursuit since he had entered the house. A wild despair shone from his eyes. He started up, and, in a voice whose mortal anguish would have softened the hardest heart, exclaimed: "Ah! that is what you have said to all the others! but no one ever loved you as I love! When a man marries, he offers his wife the battered remains of a heart that has been dragged through all kinds of filth! But I, long before I met you, knew that I could never love but once in my life; and, when I saw you, I felt that here was the woman to whom my life, my thoughts, my soul, belonged! When I was unhappy, my consolation was, 'She will love me some day.' When I was happy, I thought, 'What a pity she does not love me yet!' and joy turned to sadness. If I were to tell you all the absurdities I have committed, merely to be with you! The morning you were reading in the garden, I was hidden behind the rock against which you were leaning. The evening you walked alone on the sea-shore, I was close by you. At night, I watched your window; and you tell me what you tell your other lovers! What have they ever done? Some of them have married since then, as if they could forget you. But I—I am yours for life and death—yours, whether you want me or not; bound to you by my love, by my will, and by my passion."

As he spoke, Odette sat up, listening, full of pity for his sorrow and suffering. He was right. He deserved something more than the careless reply she usually made. She looked at him with inexpressible tenderness, her dark eyes moist with tears.

"You love me. I believe you sincerely. You are wounded, and I am very sorry. Forgive me for being the cause of your suffering. I assure you that I never dreamed of anything like this; otherwise, I should not have allowed you to cherish a love that I could never return. I beg your pardon for the grief I have caused you; but I can never be your wife, because I do not love you."

At these words, Paul felt his strength leaving him. He sank into a chair, and, burying his face in his hands, he wept. This proud, strong man wept in his despair like a little child. Tears were falling from Odette's eyes as she sought to take his hand. He pushed her away. Raising his head, he said with the composure of utter hopelessness: "Forgive me. I have not shed tears for many years. You do not love me. I shall die. With me, my heart is my life, and I know death will soon relieve me from my suffering. I endured agonies when my mother married a second time, four years ago. I left her. I became nearly insane with jealous grief. I hated my step-father until an hour ago; but he then removed the obstacles to my confession of love to you. I forgot everything in my gratitude, because my love for you is stronger than my love for my mother; and, now, you escape from me. You see that I can not help dying of grief."

Odette's heart was bleeding at his supreme despair. Suddenly she raised her head, with a gesture of sudden resolution. "Dear friend," she said, "I will make you a confession. It wounds me to the soul to make it; but you must be cured of your unfortunate passion, and the only way is to show that I am unworthy of it."

She was shuddering and pale. "I do not marry you, because I can not. If I had only known this before! You are too late. I have loved another, insanely, passionately as you love me. For a whole month I lived on his words, his glances; and, if he had opened his arms, I should have fallen into them."

Odette stood before him, red with shame, yet proudly laying bare her heart to cure her friend, at the expense of untold suffering to herself. She continued: "The very words he let fall were of inspired eloquence. He had all combined that could fascinate a woman; fame, genius, and beauty. My punishment for having given my heart unsought is, that now I can not love you—for, I might have loved you. I now lose you forever; but I have at least cured you of loving one so unworthy."

"You, unworthy of me!" cried Paul, no longer able to restrain his passion. "You have loved another; but, what is there to blame in that? You have not fallen in the least from your pedestal. Do you think that, because you have met and admired some man of genius, your life must be blasted ever after; that you can never have a home, with children of your own? Let me have the hope of some day replacing him in your heart!"

Odette thanked him through her falling tears for his noble answer to her confession; but replied, "Alas, it is impossible. No man can ever forgive his wife her love for another."

"What do I care if I am the second in your heart? I will surround you with such divine tenderness, such glowing passion, that you can not help loving me."

Odette's firmness returned. She was on the point of saying No, when Paul interrupted her.

"You would be so happy with me. My family would worship you almost as I do. You know how I love my mother. She is beautiful, good, and the most cultivated woman I ever knew. I have never spoken of my step-father, because—because until to-day I had the greatest dislike for him. But I always acknowledged his great genius. You have admired his paintings a hundred times—Claude Sirvin. My family, you see, is worthy of even you."

Paul stopped, startled at Odette's sudden pallor. If a bomb-shell had exploded at her feet, it would not have shocked her as did this name of Claude Sirvin. Her teeth chattered. The young man cried:

"My God! Odette! what is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing; a dizziness merely." Her will-power was very strong, evidently, as she regained self-possession almost immediately, and, smiling faintly: "You see, it is nothing!" And, as he was about to speak, she said: "If you will leave me alone three minutes, I will give you my final answer. Go down to the foot of the garden, and back."

"And you will tell me——?"

She smiled and pointed to the door. Hardly had he disappeared, when her features became gloomy, and the line in her forehead deepened. "I, the daughter-in-law of Claude Sirvin!" then started as if frightened at the sound of her own voice. She seemed torn by conflicting emotions. Suddenly, as if to put an end to her indecision, she sprang to the door and ran after Paul. "Paul," she almost screamed to him. The young man was slowly returning up the garden walk. At the sound of her voice, he sprang to her. Odette grasped his hand:

"Swear that you will forget my confession."

"I solemnly swear it."

"Swear that you will never regret marrying me!"

"I solemnly swear it."

"Then you may keep my hand; it is yours."

"Odette!"

He was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, when Corinne appeared. She had profited by her absence, and was now perfectly resplendent! Imagine a low-necked dress, covered with ruffles—little ones, wide ones, ruffles trimmed with fringe; ruffles trimmed with red and yellow silk; ruffles in every direction. The dress was made short in front so as to show the large feet, squeezed into slippers a size too small; and showing, also, the black stockings embroidered with gold-thread.

Odette nearly laughed outright, but leaning towards Paul, she said: "Come back this evening." He was sorry to leave her so soon, but he obeyed his divinity and left, without a glance at Mme. Descoutures. "Where has M. Frager gone?" she asked, settling herself in an arm-chair.

"He has gone home."

"Gone home—just as I return!" These few words contained the very essence of bitter disappointment. Odette in her preoccupation, did not notice it, however, and simply asked: "Is my father in his study?"

"Yes, I believe so; but you know he does not like to be disturbed at his work."

"Oh! he will not mind. I want to tell him something important."

"What is it?"

"That I am going to be married."

"To be married!"

"Yes; to M. Paul Frager. I have just accepted him;" and she quietly walked off, leaving Corinne a prey to the most intense astonishment and disappointment.

This state did not last long. It was succeeded by the most violent anger against Odette, who had stolen her lover—for she never doubted but that the young man had come to see her, and, during her absence, Odette had bewitched him in some way. Medea, jealous of Creusa; Hermione, furious at Andromache; Calypso and Eucharis; none of the betrayed lovers of mythology or fiction hated their rivals more than Corinne hated Odette from henceforth. Odette never suspected it. If she had, she would not have cared. But Achilles was murdered by Paris, the coward; and a little gnat can drive an elephant nearly distracted; the proof of which is that the hatred of Corinne—that seemingly inoffensive, silly and vain nonentity—was the cause of untold misery to Odette.