Henri was ready, and had taken great pains to dress for the occasion in an apparently careless style. He was wearing one of those morning suits in which a young man nearly always looks well.

At the time appointed in the letter there was a ring at the door. Henri opened it and Mme. Bourjot entered. She passed by and walked on in front of him as though she knew the way, until she reached the study. She took a seat on the divan, and neither of them spoke a word. There was plenty of room by her on the divan, but Henri drew up a smoking-chair, which he turned round, and, sitting down astride on it, folded his arms over the back.

Mme. Bourjot lifted her double lace veil and turned it back over her hat. Holding her head slightly aside, and with one hand pulling the glove slowly off the other, she gazed at the things on the wall and on the mantel-shelf. She gave a little sigh as if she were alone, and then, glancing at Henri, she said:

"There is some of my life here—something of me—in all that." She held out her ungloved hand to him, and Henri kissed the tips of her fingers respectfully.

"Forgive me," she went on, "I did not intend speaking of myself; I have not come here for that. Oh, you need not be afraid, I am quite sensible to-day, I assure you. The first moment—well, the first moment was hard! I won't deny that I had to pull myself together," she continued, with a tearful smile, "but it's all over now. I scarcely suffer any more, and I am quite myself again, I assure you. Of course everything cannot be forgotten all in a minute, and I won't say that you are nothing to me now—for you would not believe me. But this I can assure you, and you must believe me, Henri, there is no more love for you in my heart. I am no longer weak; the woman within me is dead—quite dead, and the affection I have for you now is quite pure."

The light seemed to annoy her as she spoke, as if it were some one gazing at her. "Will you put the blind down, dear?" she said. "The sun—my eyes have rather hurt me the last few days."

While Henri was at the window she arranged her hat and let the cloak she was wearing drop from her shoulders. When the light was not so strong in the room she began again:

"Yes, Henri, after struggling a long time, and enduring such anguish as you will never know, after passing nights such as I hope you may never have, and after crying and praying, I have conquered myself. I have won the victory, and I can now think of my daughter's happiness without being jealous, and of yours as the only happiness now left for me on earth."

"You are an angel, Laure," said Henri, getting up and walking up and down the room as though he were greatly agitated. "But you must look at things as they are. You were quite right the other day when you said that we must separate forever—never see each other again. The idea of our constantly meeting! You know we could not. It would take so little to open wounds as slightly closed as ours are. Then, too, even if you are sure of yourself, how do you know that I am as sure of myself? How can I tell—if we were meeting at all times—with such constant temptation—if I were always near you," he said, speaking very tenderly, "why, some day, unexpectedly—how can I tell—and I am an honourable man."

"No, Henri," she answered, taking his hands in hers and drawing him to the seat at her side, "I am not afraid of you, and I am not afraid of myself. It is all over. How can I make you believe me? And you will not refuse me? No, you cannot refuse me the only happiness which remains for me—my only happiness. It is all I have left in the world now—it is to see you, only to see you—" and throwing her arms round Henri's neck she drew him to her closely.

"Ah, no, it is quite impossible," said Henri, when the embrace had lasted a few seconds. "Don't say any more about it," he continued, brusquely, getting up as he spoke.

"I will be brave," said Mme. Bourjot very seriously.

When they had played out their comedy of renunciation they both felt more at ease.

"Now, then, listen to me," began Mme. Bourjot once more, "my husband will give you his daughter."

"How foolish you are, really, Laure."

"Don't interrupt me—my husband will give you his daughter. I fancy he intends asking his son-in-law to live in the same house. Of course you would be quite free—your suite of rooms, your carriage, meals, and everything quite apart—you know what our style of living is. Unless M. Bourjot has changed his mind, she will have a dowry of forty thousand pounds, and unless he should lose his money, which I do not think is very probable, you will have, at our death, four or five times that amount."

"And how can you seriously imagine that Mlle. Bourjot, who has forty thousand pounds, and who will have four or five times that much, would marry——"

"I am her mother," answered Mme. Bourjot in a decisive tone. "And then—don't you love her? Why, it would merely be a kind of marriage of expediency," and Mme. Bourjot smiled. "You provide her with happiness."

"But what will the world say?"

"The world? My dear boy, we should close the world's mouth with truffles," and she gave her shoulders a little shrug.

"And M. Bourjot?"

"That's my part. He will like you very much before the end of two months. The only thing is, as you know, he will want a title; he has always intended his daughter to marry a count. All I can do is to get him to consent to a name tacked on to yours. Nothing is simpler, nowadays, than to get permission to add to one's name the name of some estate, or forest, or even the name of a meadow, or a bit of land of any sort. Didn't I hear some one talking to your mother about a farm called Villacourt that you have in the Haute-Marne? Mauperin de Villacourt; that would do very well. You know, as far as I am concerned, how little I care about such things."

"Oh, but it would be so ridiculous, with my principles, and a Liberal, too, bound as I am. And then, you know——"

"Oh, you can say it is a whim of your wife's. Every one goes about with names like that now; it's a sort of cross people have to bear. Shall I say a word for you to any one in authority?"

"Oh, no; no, please don't! I didn't think I had said anything which could make you imagine I should be inclined to accept. I don't really know, frankly. You understand that I should have to think it over, I should have to collect myself and consider what my duty is; to be more myself, in fact, and less influenced by you, before I could give you an answer."

"I shall call on your mother this week," said Mme. Bourjot, getting up and pressing his hand. "Good-bye," she said sadly; "life is a sacrifice!"