Corinne and the humble M. Descoutures were at lunch when Mme. de Bricourt was announced. They entered the drawing-room together, Corinne having signified her august desire for him to remain and help her receive her venerable friend.

"How glad I am to see you, dear child," said Mme. de Bricourt, embracing Corinne affectionately. "How charming you look to-day. Your hair is arranged so artistically and becomingly. Do you know I am worried to death over these slanders about our poor, dear Odette. We must find some way to defend her, or her reputation will be ruined for ever. What can we do to save her?" She raised her eyes to heaven as if calling it to witness to the purity and loyalty of her heart. Fortunately heaven usually refuses to testify in such cases. Corinne had assumed an air of dumb consternation that relieved her from the responsibility of replying.

"This love affair between Odette and Claude, is whispered about on all sides. Of course, we do not believe in it; but all agree in saying that there must be some fire where there is so much smoke. We must do some thing, dearest Corinne, to save Odette, before it is too late. We must sacrifice every thing to friendship; but, what can we do?"

"I am sure I do not know!"

"I thought perhaps you might tell her what people are saying about her; skilfully, you know, concealing the worst, perhaps. What could be more natural than for you to do so—two friends of about the same age."

Corinne smiled at this pleasant little fiction in regard to their age being the same, but replied:

"I do not think that would have the least effect, Odette is so wilful and determined."

"Yes, I am afraid you are right. She would naturally be indignant and deny every thing. But if we could only let her husband know in some way of the disgrace hanging over his name."

Corinne's eyes sparkled. She had never forgiven Paul his desertion of her for Odette, at Carqueirannes; and here was an opportunity for revenge, both on him and on Odette.

Mme. de Bricourt continued: "He will never know, unless some accident or some devoted friend opens his eyes. If I were young and charming like you, dear child, I would not delay an instant in informing him of these slanders, so that he could refute them. I am too old to undertake the task. My fingers are not delicate enough to pour the balm into the wound; but you, dear Corinne, your gentle sympathy would heal the blow as it was made."

Corinne sighed. She was thinking of that declaration of love, so inopportunely and fatally interrupted by Odette. Perhaps free from her sorcery, he might return to his first love. Mme. de Bricourt read these thoughts in her mind as well as if she had spoken them aloud, and was satisfied with her work. The seed she had sown would come to maturity. So she adroitly changed the subject, and, soon after, took leave.

When Corinne returned to the drawing-room after having accompanied her friend to the door, she found M. Descoutures pacing up and down the room in great agitation, instead of sitting quietly upright in his chair, as usual.

Corinne glanced at him severely: "Are you trying to imitate the bears at the menagerie? But it is of no consequence; leave the room. I wish to be alone."

He usually vanished at this command; but this time he did not obey.

"Did you not hear me, M. Descoutures?"

He stood before her, pale, evidently trying to nerve himself to speak. He opened his mouth two or three times, but had not the courage to utter a sound. Finally, he said:

"If—I—yes, heard you, only I—perfectly—wanted to say—"

"What do you want to say?"

"I was in the room during your conversation with Mme. de Bricourt; and, I beg your pardon if I am mistaken, but I understood from your remarks that it was your intention to repeat these foolish scandals to M. Frager."

"Well! what then?" she replied scornfully indifferent.

M. Descoutures seemed to grow more and more embarrassed. He loosened his cravat, that appeared to be strangling him. His eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets.

He continued, however: "But you must not do any thing to open his eyes. Your heart must show you that ignorance is better than the anguish of certainty or even suspicion. In your blind, mistaken generosity, you would plunge a whole family into the bitterest sorrow and despair."

Poor, brave little gentleman! He had spoken quickly, and only stopped as he thought of Laviguerie overwhelmed by this scandal about his favorite daughter. Corinne gazed at him in amazement, and then, struck by the absurdity of the situation, laughed and turned to leave the room. M. Descoutures rose to the occasion. Seizing her by the arm, he continued: "To begin with, you must not leave this room." Corinne drew herself to her full height and said with the greatest indignation: "Do you dare to lay hands on me! You must be insane!" She tried to leave the room, but the little man held her fast. "I am not insane now, but I was the day I married you, you cruel, wicked woman! I have been quiet for twenty years, submitting to you and your unreasonable demands. I did not care so much when you only wounded me; but now you are planning to mortally injure the friends I love most on earth, and I swear you shall not do it. I see through your plots, and if you attempt to resist me, and carry them out, by God! I will kill you!"

M. Descoutures stood erect before her, his arms crossed. Corinne really was afraid of him. She sank into a chair. M. Descoutures pulled the bell. When the servant answered the summons, he said: "Madame Descoutures is very much indisposed. She will keep her room for a few days, and will see no callers or friends. She will not be at home to any one. Do you understand?"

The servant looked at Madame Descoutures for a ratification of the order, but he only met her gaze of stony horror. He felt vaguely that some unusual scene was taking place; that the authority in the house was changing hands.

When he had disappeared, M. Descoutures turned to his wife, saying: "Now go to your room, and do not dare to leave it."

She rose and went to her room, his threat still ringing in her ears, "By God! I will murder you!" Her anger and baffled fury were at a white heat by this time. She charged Odette with being the cause of all this humiliation, and her affection for her was not increased by this thought. And she was balked of her revenge! At this point the good soul wept with rage. She spent an hour trying to devise some means to circumvent her husband. A Hindoo proverb says, "If you imprison a woman, keep watch over the key-hole." Corinne could write. She could use that cowardly weapon—an anonymous letter.

But how could she word it? Her accusation must be accompanied by convincing proof, or Paul's noble, trusting heart would meet it with simple disbelief. Where could she find this proof? She reflected for another hour, till finally, she started with a cry of delight. Claude and Odette must certainly have exchanged a few notes. Lovers have so much to say to each other, that, in spite of their frequent meetings, they must have occasionally written a line or two to slip into the other's hand. At first, of course they destroyed them; but Odette surely must have received some little note so sweet, so tender, that she could not deny herself the pleasure of keeping it to read again at her leisure. A woman that preserves one love-letter is lost, for a second and a third is added to it, until all are preserved, hidden away under lock and key.

Corinne had found the thread to guide her out of the labyrinth, while her jealous hatred aided her still farther. Taking it for granted that Odette had some love-letters from Claude in her possession, where could she have concealed them. Corinne thought she was baffled at first, but she finally remembered an exquisitely carved oaken cabinet that Germaine had found in a bric-À-brac store in Naples and sent to her sister. Odette valued it very highly, and was in the habit of keeping her letters and jewelry in it. What would be more probable than that she had locked Claude's letters in this desk with her other valuables.

So Corinne based her communication on two hypotheses; first, that any letters had passed between the lovers; second, the place where they were kept.

In any case, such an accusation, accompanied with such apparent proof, must destroy the confidence and loving trust of the husband.

He would either find the letters, or he would not find them. If his trust survived this shock Corinne could then find some other way to enlighten him.

She sat down to her writing-desk, and disguising her handwriting as much as possible, wrote as follows:

"One of your friends believes it his duty to inform you that M. Sirvin is the favored lover of Mme. Frager. He was her lover before she married you. If you still doubt, ask her to show you the contents of the oaken desk, in her bed-room."

Mme. Descoutures quietly folded her note, put it in an envelope, wrote the address, and calling a servant, gave it to him to mail.

M. Descoutures having given no orders to the contrary, the servant obeyed, and Corinne, from the window, watched him put it into the letter-box on the corner.

So it was launched. It was taken from the letter-box to the post-office, where it seemed lost among the thousands of other letters, circulars and newspapers. One of the employÉs picked it up, little dreaming that he held in his hand the fate of a whole family; he tossed it one side, on a table already covered with hundreds of letters.

The Greeks of old wrote of Fate. The oracles of ancient Greece are replaced to-day by the honest, sturdy letter-carriers in their grey and black uniform.

It was nine o'clock in the evening. Odette was visiting her friend at St. Cloud; Claude and Grenoble had been absent several days on their sketching tour; Mme. Sirvin had retired early; so Paul was writing alone in his study. His book was progressing finely and would soon be ready for the publisher. Happiness is such a help to labor. He finally threw aside his pen, gayly, conscious that he had written well, and glad to have accomplished so much. He looked around for the evening paper and saw the letter lying on the table, that the servant had brought up with the paper. He noticed that the handwriting was unknown to him, and, carelessly thinking of some thing else, he opened the envelope.

He read the note in one glance, without moving, or uttering a sound; then, thinking he had misunderstood it, read it again. He crushed the paper in his hand and tossed it away, saying, "Poor Odette! That such a scoundrel should dare to even take her name on his lips!" Not a moment, not an instant of suspicion. His only thought was of tender sympathy with his wife and anger at her enemy.

He walked up and down the room, trying to imagine who could have written the cowardly, venomous thing; but could not think of a single enemy, far or near. The idea of his wife being untrue to him brought a smile to his lips, it was so preposterous. Then, to think that the only man whose name could be coupled with hers, should be Claude! Claude, so kind, so generous and thoughtful! These hideous fancies, perhaps, arose from the fact that it was Claude's generosity that had enabled them to marry; and then, Claude and Odette were obliged to go out a great deal together, as they were dwelling under the same roof. He did not notice that he was proving that the calumny at least had some appearance of probability. He knew well the oak cabinet in her room; he could catch a glimpse of it through the open door. Involuntarily he walked in and looked at it, and a sudden instinct caused him to seize the poker from the fireplace, and knock on the lock till it gave way and the carved doors flew open. He felt ashamed of his suspicious search as he saw the little drawers and divisions open before him. He withdrew his hand that he had half extended. Then, hurriedly, stealthily, like a thief in the night, he pulled open the drawers one by one, looking their contents carefully over, and tossing them aside. At last he came across a small, square, Japanese box. He shuddered as he found it locked. He knocked it violently against the desk, so that the cover came off in his hands, and his heart stood still as he saw a package of letters inside, tied with a narrow ribbon. He tore off this band and read the letters. He uttered a stifled cry of horror and despair. A wild, insane longing to have the blood of the guilty pair, seized him. He remembered that both were away from home; but Odette was at St. Cloud. He seized his hat and rushed out of the house, saying to himself; "I will kill her! I will kill her!" The avenue was crowded with the usual Summer evening throng, happy and gay; but Paul made his way through it, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but Odette in Claude's arms, and a voice in his heart crying fiercely, Kill her! kill her!

So he had been deceived from the first! Even before his marriage had Claude and Odette loved each other! Nothing but treachery! He recalled the first months of his married life, when Odette had been so inexpressibly sweet and fascinating; those long, passionate embraces; their strolls in the woods; he could see the waves dancing in the sunbeams as he closed his eyes; that enchanting "solitude À deux;" and he gnashed his teeth as he reflected that it was all treachery and deceit. Odette had been lying when she told him she loved him; lying, when she embraced him. Nothing, nothing was left him. All had been false. She must die; and Claude must die. Paul recalled Claude's visit to Canet, when he thought him the soul of generosity and honor; and that, too, was false treachery! Claude wanted to establish his mistress in a house of her own, and could find no more suitable husband for her than his wife's son! Oh! it was infamous! And perhaps people thought that Paul had walked into the snare with his eyes open! No one could have believed that he alone was blind to his dishonor, but must have supposed his complaisant approval arose from feeling it to be to his interest to silently acquiesce! Paul stopped. He was seized with a sudden dizziness that forced him to cling to a tree for support. He had been walking blindly through the Bois de Boulogne, deserted and quiet at this late hour. His honor, as well as his happiness, had been smitten to the ground. Again he felt the instinct to kill his guilty wife drive him on. He dashed madly forward. He stumbled over a stone and fell to the ground. He grasped a drooping branch of the tree above him, and raised himself to his feet. He found his wild flight stopped by a low wall, broken down in many places, and covered with moss. He uttered a cry of dismay, for it was a cemetery that lay before him, gloomy and silent.

Paul saw the white gravestones in the pale moonlight, extending as far as he could see. The neglected cypresses and willows stretched their shaggy arms towards each other in ghostly silence. The grass grew thick and rank on the graves. No grand monuments or tombs were to be seen; only simple crosses, or plain marble slabs, gray and discolored with age.

It all seemed to Paul so sad, so sweetly peaceful. His anger subsided. He was hurrying to St. Cloud to kill his wife, and here lay Death at his feet. He leaned his arms on the wall and gazed on the solemn scene. Just before him lay a grave whose plain slab bore no other words save this simple inscription: "My Mother." Probably some poor, nameless woman, whose child had raised this touching tribute to her memory.

Those two words, "My Mother," sank into Paul's heart. Where was he going? To kill Odette, and to bring shame and disgrace to the wife of Claude Sirvin, the other victim of the tragedy. His mother! He thought no longer of himself, only of her, and his heart seemed ready to burst with sorrow and grief for her. How she worshiped her husband! and she would die at the news of his crime! Then the same thought came to him, in his love for his mother, that had come to the mother in her love for him; the sublime and noble idea of sacrificing himself for her happiness. The son said "My mother," as the mother had said "My son."

His eyes still rested on the slab before him, that seemed to say: "Tread lightly; speak softly; there is some one sleeping here."

This unknown son, imploring silence for his dead mother, seemed to show Paul that his duty was silence. Mme. Sirvin must never learn the horrible truth. It was a fearful sacrifice; but had not the mother borne as much for him? She had carried him under her heart; she had brought him into the world; she had devoted her life to rear him to manhood. Now he must, in his turn, suffer for her.

But could he be silent? Could he close his eyes to his own dishonor? He would take Odette far, far away; cross the ocean; hide himself in a desert—no matter where; at least, he would leave peace and contentment with his mother.

God seemed to reward his noble resolution, for a heavenly calm succeeded the tempest of rage in his soul. He had been on the point of committing a crime, but God had shown him that vengeance cometh from on high. Was he the only unhappy creature on earth? Among the hundreds lying so peacefully before him, there must have been some that had suffered during their mortal life. The moonlight showed hundreds and hundreds of graves, and in each one there must be either a man, or a woman, or a child; and each one had had their share of pain and sorrow.

Pain and sorrow—they meet us at the cradle, and accompany us to the grave.

Paul buried his face in his hands and wept. The cypresses, the willows, the graves—all were silent. Not a murmur, not a whisper, among the branches. Nature seemed to sympathize with his unspeakable woe. As he wept his grief seemed lightened. His mother needed him, or he would have been tempted to lay down this life that had grown such a sad, sad burden. He envied the dead around him. But still it was cowardly to even wish to die. This life is a battle-field, and God pardons no deserters. Paul said to himself he would fight it out to the bitter end, would struggle and conquer. If even his contempt and hatred should not strangle his fatal love for Odette; if, in spite of all his efforts, he could not tear her from his heart, why, even then, life is not made for happiness alone, and he ought not to complain.

The path of duty lay plain before him. Prevent his mother from suspecting the truth; take his wife to America, for he must earn his own livelihood now. That infamous gift of Claude's should be cast in his teeth!

He raised his head, strengthened by his decisions, and turned to retrace his steps; but where could he go? Return to Claude's house—eat his bread? Never! And yet he would be obliged to, for he must avoid giving his mother the least cause for suspicion. He would go to St. Cloud the next day to acquaint Odette with his decision. He thought of her quite calmly now; his scorn and contempt had killed his love.

It was long past midnight when he found himself again in his study. He shuddered, for he was surrounded by the traces of Odette's presence. He saw her in the book she had been reading, in the furniture, arranged according to her taste, in the paintings she admired.

He staggered into her bedchamber, where he fell into a chair, his heart beating fast. Every thing was as he had left it. The oaken cabinet faced him with its open doors and contents in disorder. The letters still lay scattered about the floor. Her room! And he had loved her so! The delicate perfume that she was accustomed to use floated in the air; in one corner stood the tiny book-case with her favorite books; Germaine's portrait smiled at him from the wall. He shivered from head to foot; and he thought his love had been killed by contempt! How foolish he had been to think that his passionate love, stronger than death itself, had been destroyed in an hour!

He hated her; he despised her; and he adored her! He threw himself, still dressed, on the bed, and all night long he tossed and turned, his brain teeming with these burning thoughts, his heart bleeding with anguish, and his imagination recalling scenes of happiness and despair. The sun stood high in the heavens when sleep came at last to soothe his fevered brain.

Elaine wondered what made her son sleep so unusually late this morning, but would not allow him to be disturbed. Between four and five she went to his room and knocked lightly. As she received no reply she opened the door, and saw Paul throwing clothes and books into his trunk.

"Are you going away, my son?"

He turned hastily, hesitated an instant, then tenderly embraced her. She supposed he was going to spend a day or so with Odette, and the thought filled her with sorrow and indignation; but she must conceal her feelings, so she said:

"Is it a pleasant day?"

He, too, had his terrible secret. If the room had been lighter she would have read it in his blood-shot eyes, in his drawn features, and his livid pallor. But she saw nothing of it.

"Very pleasant, mother."

A long silence. Both hesitating and embarrassed; neither daring to glance at the other. Elaine saw his reflection in the mirror and started at his paleness. Could he have any suspicions? Did he know of his wife's dishonor? How could she find out? Turning to the window, she said, "Why, here is a carriage at the door. How tiresome; some one has come to call, and I'm not dressed. But, no; it is Grenoble, and there is Claude."

"He?" cried Paul, angrily.

Elaine turned around. She said,

"You know all."

Without replying, he buried his head in his hands. Elaine went to him, put her arms around him, and drew his head to her bosom.

"My poor child, how you must suffer."

"Oh, mother!" and he wept like a little child. She kissed him, caressed him, as if he were again the little son of so many years ago. A son never seems a man in his mother's eyes, and when he is in trouble, she takes him again to her heart, as she did in his childhood.

She whispered:

"And have you found it out? And did you try to conceal it from me to save my happiness, as I have kept it from you to save yours, my brave Paul?"

In the midst of her bitter anguish, she still felt a glow of pride at this proof of her son's noble character. They seemed drawn still closer together by their mutual suffering—their mutual sacrifice.

Grieving over his sorrow, she forgot her own. He was so young. He had barely raised the cup of life and happiness to his lips, when it was dashed from his hand. So young, so brave, so noble!

Finally, she raised her head:

"We must weep no longer, Paul. Every crime must have its punishment. Do your duty. Those two criminals deserve no mercy. They have dishonored the mother and the son. You know where to find them. Do your duty—my revenge and yours!"

She raised her hand and pointed to the door, beautiful as Truth, implacable as Destiny!