As the days passed on, Claude's friends were astonished that they saw so little of him. Of course he was working at his painting for the "Salon," but that was no reason for his staying at home all the time. Before, as well as since his marriage, Claude always went out every evening, either into society or to some of his friends' studios. As artists can only work by daylight, they usually retire early, and are ready for work in the morning before the rest of the world is awake. But Claude was an exception, as he had always gone much into society. So it was a great change for him to pass his evenings quietly at home, and when a month had thus elapsed, the astonishment of his friends bordered on consternation.

At first Claude did not understand himself; but gradually, he was forced to acknowledge the complete surrender of his heart to Odette. The magic charm in her every movement, the tender grace of her face and figure; all seemed to change his very being.

His happiest hours were when he could sit and watch her quietly as she leaned back in her arm-chair, gazing into the fire. He had never dreamed it possible that, as his step-daughter, he could look upon her with anything more than a fatherly interest; so he was not watching his heart at all, until suddenly he found himself bound hand and foot, like an eagle caught in a net. He was frightened and dismayed when he realized the extent and depth of his passionate admiration. He tried to forget himself in his work, but his thoughts were always with her, working or idle. One morning he commenced painting quite early, and worked busily for two or three hours at his great Danae painting; suddenly he rose and stepped back a few feet to judge of the effect. With horror, he saw that his Danae was an exact portrait of Odette. Seizing a cloth, he hastily rubbed out the whole morning's work, and patiently recommenced to sketch Danae's head. Again, after hours of labor, did the golden hair and glorious dark eyes smile at him from the canvas. This time he erased the paint with his pen-knife, as if no trace should remain of his insane infatuation. He threw his brush into a corner of the studio, and as Grenoble happened to enter just then, he said "Come, I will sit for you to-day, I can not paint;" and taking off some wet cloths wound around a bust, in the center of the room, he sat down opposite it.

Grenoble had been working at this portrait bust of his friend for some months, and every one said it was the finest work he had ever accomplished. It was Claude Sirvin, the man and the artist, human and inspired. Before answering, Grenoble stopped in front of the Danae. "Splendid!" he said. "Your Jupiter is perfect! and this drapery is marvelous. But, your Danae seems to bother you. Why don't you take my advice and take your daughter-in-law for your model?" and, without noticing Claude's agitation, he quietly sat down on his camp-stool and said, "As you are kind enough to sit, I will see what I can accomplish to-day."

Grenoble repeated his advice about the Danae at breakfast and dinner, again and again, until all had become so accustomed to the idea, that Odette's disinclination seemed almost childish. Claude sincerely thought (he was always sincere), that perhaps he could get free from her haunting image, if he could once get it fairly on the canvas.

So Claude yielded, Odette yielded, and the result was, that one pleasant afternoon in April, they were sitting alone in the studio. It was quite warm in the room. On a table near by, some pastilles were burning to perfume the smoke-laden air. Buried in an arm-chair, her head posed according to directions, Odette lay lost in thought, her eye gazing at vacancy. Around her the thousand and one curious objects to be found in all studios—here a pile of armor glistening in the sun, there some drapery thrown carelessly over an easel; every where frames and pictures of all shapes and sizes. She was posing in a low-necked dress to show her throat fully; around her neck a heavy pearl necklace—Danae's pearls, her first temptation. They had not spoken for more than two hours. At first Odette had taken a large Spanish knife in her hand, playing with it to hide her nervousness somewhat; but it dropped from her fingers, and she sat quiet, staring at vacancy, trying to control her wildly beating heart. She would rather die than let him see the intense agitation this tÊte-À-tÊte was causing her.

Claude commenced to paint with great energy; but the sweet intoxication of her presence gradually mounted to his brain. He had just completed the face, when the necklace slipped on her neck. He rose, and, speaking for the first time in two hours, said: "If you will allow me, I will—" As he approached, she looked at him. Did he see the love in her eyes? or, was he conquered by his own passion? His fingers had just touched the necklace, when he seized her passionately in his arms, and, kissing her bare white throat, he murmured: "I love you." At one bound she was on her feet. She escaped from his arms, haggard and trembling. She extended her hand to protect herself, and the large knife she still held struck his cheek, making a slight wound which began to bleed. Then Odette, with a cry of horror, fled from the room.

Claude did not follow her. He stood where she had left him, mechanically wiping away the drops of blood from his cheek. He seemed to see clearly now, and for the first time, that this passion for Odette was the one love of his whole life; all else had been nothing in comparison. Did she love him? He could not decide. While he was thus reflecting, time was passing. He heard the noise of a carriage being driven to the door, and, looking out of the window, he saw Odette and her husband get into it. One of the servants placed a small trunk beside the driver, the gate was opened, and the coupÉ drove off. So she was going away. He was seized with the utmost anxiety, for, if Odette had proclaimed his rashness, he knew well that his wife would despise him ever after. But gradually his love again gained the ascendancy, and he said to himself the next hour would decide his fate. Either Odette had left forever with her husband, or else she had invented some trivial excuse to leave home for a short time, showing she was afraid of her own weakness, and this fear would prove that she returned Claude's love. He seated himself on the sofa, burying his face in his hands, while his heart was torn with love and remorse. Night came on gradually, until all was dark outside, as his heart was, it being covered with the black pall of his disgraceful passion. He did not reflect that this woman he loved was the daughter-in-law of her who bore his name! At first he almost wished that Odette had left his house to return no more. He supposed that, if they never met again, he could conquer this love in time. But as the hours passed, his former thoughts returned to him, and he would have bought with his life's blood the assurance that he would soon see Odette again. When he heard the outside door open, and distinguished Paul's voice, he uttered a cry of joy. The young man came up to the studio almost immediately. "Why, you are in the dark!" he exclaimed, "Odette must have been sitting for you when her cousin's telegram was brought to her. I wished to go with her to Dijon, but she said it was quite unnecessary."

As the studio was so dark, Paul could not see Claude's excitement.

He asked almost unconsciously: "What train did she take?"

"The accommodation train. She will not reach Dijon till midnight. I tried to persuade her to wait for the eight o'clock express, but she wished to start as soon as possible. So she has gone."

Claude was not mistaken. Odette was fleeing from him and from herself. When she escaped from the studio, she hurried to her room, with his kiss still burning on her neck. It seemed as if she must be branded there, and every one would see the mark. Again she said, "I am lost," as she had said it a few weeks ago. And she was lost. The curse had come upon her, and she could not escape her destiny. But her conscience filled her with contempt and disgust for her own self. A voice seemed to cry, "Flee! flee for your life!" but where? and with whom? She never thought that her only safety now was in her husband; that she must confess every thing to him, and flee with him far, far away, never, never to return. She did not know that this was her last chance. She only felt the necessity of flight for to-day. She thought not of the morrow. Her mind formed a dozen plans. Finally, she decided, and trying to regain self-possession, she went to her husband's room.

Paul was busily writing. He looked up as the door opened, and cried joyfully: "Welcome, welcome! I am so glad to see you! How goes the Danae?"

"I had to break off the sitting. A telegram was brought me from Dijon. My cousin Anna is very sick, and sends for me. I should like to start immediately."

Her first lie necessitated another, and then another, without the thought occurring to her that, if Paul had asked the servants about the despatch, he would have discovered her falsehood. But the young man never stooped to any thing like that. Such trust and confidence as his is never suspicious. He tried to persuade her to wait for the express, but in vain, as she insisted upon starting immediately.

She did not draw a long breath until she was settled in the train, and the whistle of the engine sounded the shrill note of departure. She felt safe at last—in her foolish blindness—safe! As she closed her eyes, the scene in the studio appeared again. She felt Claude's burning gaze fastened upon her. She felt him approach, and again his arms were around her! She shuddered, and, opening the window, held her burning forehead to the cool night air. Then she returned to the thought of her own safety. She had fled, so she was pure and good. She loved Claude beyond expression; she had wounded him with a knife, and was fleeing from him! So she was still true to herself! She was sincere. We never lie to ourselves. Of course, she loved Claude; but that was not her fault. We are not responsible for our feelings. We are only responsible for our actions. Who could accuse her, if the whole world could read her heart? Who could say, "She is guilty?" She was not guilty, because she had left him. She had struggled and fought against this overwhelming love. She recalled her vain efforts to throw it off. She had earnestly tried to love her husband. It was her misfortune, not her fault, that she could not succeed. She felt proud of her resistance to Claude, and the farther behind her that Paris lay, the more did shame and disgrace seem to recede from her. She thought of the monstrous hippogriff on whose back Ariosto's heroes escaped from their enemies, and the engine seemed just such another monster, bearing her away from Claude.

And her sister, who advised her to pray! She smiled with contempt. She did not need a God to keep her from doing wrong. Will and energy are all that we need on earth. Reason, not God, rules the universe. It was reason that showed her the abyss before her, that told her to flee, and that led her to Dijon! Pray? If there were a God, He ought not to have permitted this love to take possession of her heart. He ought to have comforted her and sympathized with her struggles. It was not necessary for her to mumble prayers. When she said, "I will be true," that was all that was needed. The kiss on her neck burnt no longer while she was congratulating herself on her safety and her strength; but it was still there.

Odette was completely exhausted when she arrived at Dijon. She went to a hotel, and was asleep in five minutes after being shown to a room. When she awoke, the room was flooded with sunshine. She was ready at ten o'clock to go to her cousin.

She had gone over the same road lately, with her husband. How many things had happened since then! The appearance of the country was entirely different, too, with no more snow or ice to be seen. As the carriage passed over the little hills, or wound around among the forest trees, the peacefulness and loveliness seemed to give her weary soul a refreshing rest. Her cousin was completely amazed at her arrival.

"What can have brought you here? I can not believe my eyes!"

"I have come to spend a few days with you. I told my husband you had sent me a telegram, because I was longing for some fresh country air."

Anna was delighted to see her. Odette accompanied her all day, from the dairy to the farm-yard, from the farm-yard to the kitchen, and every where did she seem interested and pleased. The old lady was in raptures. She had always loved Odette, but from this day she idolized her. And the young wife, in return, was grateful for the peace and oblivion of this quiet refuge. When evening arrived, they sat in front of the great fire-place, with its crackling wood fire. For many years Anna's eyes had never been open as late as ten o'clock.

The farmer's daughter, Anna's servant, had arranged the best rooms in the house for the "pretty lady," as she called Odette. They consisted of two large rooms, occupying the whole of one side of the ground floor. Odette kissed her cousin "good-night," and went into her bed-room. She took the lamp and amused herself by examining the old-fashioned engravings on the walls, "Poniatowski throwing himself into the Elster," and "Hippocrates refusing the presents from Artaxerxes," etc. Then she put the lamp on a table and opened the window. She inhaled the fresh, cool air, and enjoyed the lovely landscape before her,—the woods in tender blue and black shades, the fields gray and white, as the moon shone through the clouds; she could hear the little brook murmuring under the drooping branches of the willow trees. She wrapped a shawl around her and sat down, to enjoy at her ease the clear, cool night, so silent and lovely.

Suddenly she started. She saw a shadow on the garden wall. She thought she was mistaken, and leaned forward. The shadow climbed the wall and directed its way across the garden to the lighted window. Odette knew what it was. She instinctively felt that the thief, climbing into the garden at night, was the one she most dreaded to see. He crossed the garden, stepped on a stone under the window, swung himself up by his hands, and stood before her, pale and determined. They gazed at each other a moment, then,

"I love you!" he whispered.

She receded before him to the back of the room. "What are you doing here?" she cried. "Why do you persecute me with your shameful love? I am not your wife. Leave me this minute, or I will scream for help and have you driven away as a thief!"

Claude repeated, "I love you!"

She could not recede any further, she was already against the wall. Claude stood quiet; then, in his eloquent, trembling voice, fascinating her with the tender brilliancy of his eyes, he continued: "You love me! You can not deny it. You belong to me. To me alone. I take all the shame, the disgrace, upon myself, because I worship you, because I can not live without you, because you alone are my life and my happiness. Do you not see how I, too, have fought and struggled against this love that you have awakened in my heart. But all, all in vain. We must submit to our destiny. I love you."

Odette stood pale and trembling against the wall. She felt she was tottering on the brink of an abyss. She was falling, falling.

As Claude advanced, she raised her hand with a gesture of superb disdain.

"Coward!" she exclaimed.

Claude approached nearer.

"Coward!" she repeated.

Claude was at her side. He whispered softly again: "I love you;" and, as he opened his arms, she sank into his embrace, incapable of further resistance to the passionate love in her heart.

Odette was alone in the train. She had left Dijon the day after her arrival, and was returning to Paris. As on the journey down, her brain was throbbing with thoughts of all kinds. She was seeking excuses for her crime, and the books she had studied with her father supplied her with many. Did not Darwin write, "All human beings are forced to obey their instincts?" Spencer wrote, "Will can never conquer Nature;" while Rousseau said, "Uncontrollable emotion excuses any crime." Those she revered as her masters, justified her. Why should she feel called upon to accuse herself? Her conscience could be at rest, as she had resisted this love in her heart to the utmost.

She recalled one quotation after another, to show that she had, after all, nothing to reproach herself with. She acknowledged no responsibility to any God. Only to her own conscience was she responsible, and that gave her absolution. Since the world is as it is, all weak human creatures must expect to be occasionally worsted in their strife against evil. And then, she knew that this life is the end of the soul. Her father had taught her that there is no Judge to punish the wicked and reward the good, as the Bible declares. And before arriving at this total annihilation, the inevitable end of all men and things, she was going to live to enjoy life and love and be happy. She would be prudent, so that no one would suspect, and there would be nothing to fear. At this moment, she thought of her sister, and a sharp pang of agony pierced her soul as she felt that Germaine would despise her. In the midst of this total shipwreck of all that was true and good in her heart, only this affection for her sister remained; and the poor creature, born with good impulses, but corrupted by her wretched education, degraded by the teachings of the brutal materialism of the day, burst into sobs of sorrow and despair.

Then trying to find some way out of her grief, she began to apply the same sophistic reasonings to her sister. Yes, Germaine would despise her, but only because she had been brought up amid the superstitions and mummeries of religion. Germaine's judgment would be warped by her absurd faith in God and Christianity. She would not pay any attention to her contempt. An intelligent being should be governed by reason, and not by superstition. Her reason told her that when one has done all in one's power, that is sufficient. And she complacently rested in the free pardon given by her reason, without reflecting that day before yesterday her reason had been the first to condemn her.

The unhappy creature did not know that every human being has a terrible judge in himself. No matter how low or degraded he may be, some day his conscience will stand before him, judge and executioner at the same time; and from that day he will despise himself as he is despised by all who know his crime. He will never be able to tear off this Nessus' robe that eats into his vitals!