"I believe I should have died before morning of love and grief if you had not come. But I felt you would come; I felt you would pardon me. When I touched your hand, before I could even see you, all my sufferings were forgotten. And yet, how hard you were to me at first! What cruel things you said! How you made me suffer! But it is all forgotten! Say that all is forgotten! You have taken me to your heart again, you know that I love you, and that you let me love you! Tell me that you love me! Ah, tell me again that you love me as you did upon the boat when we listened to the sighing of the sea! Do you remember, sweet?" And her eyes sought those of her lover, trying to find in them the light of complete happiness, of which her letter had spoken. Alas! it was not there. An expression of settled sadness and remorse dwelt in their depths. And this was soon to change to one of terror. At the very instant that Ely pressed her more tender, more caressing, more loving lips on the young man's eyelids, trying to drive away the melancholy she read in his gaze, a report rang out in the garden, then a second, then a third, shot after shot. A cry rent the air. Then all was still again. A terrifying silence now reigned. The two lovers looked at each other. The same idea flashed through their minds at the same moment. "Hide yourself behind the curtains," said Ely. "I will find out what has happened." She threw a dressing-gown over her shoulders and drew one of the curtains of the alcove before the young man. Then, lamp in hand, she walked toward the window, opened it, and asked in a loud voice:-- "Who is there? What is the matter?" "Do not be alarmed, my dear," replied a voice whose sinister irony made her shiver. "It was only a robber trying to break into the villa.--He must have two or three bullets in him. We are just looking for him. Don't be frightened. _He will never come back again_! Laubach fired at him point-blank." Ely closed the window. When she turned she saw that Pierre was already more than half dressed. He was very pale, and his hands were trembling. "You are not thinking of going?" she cried. "The garden is crowded with men!" "I must go!" he replied. "They were shooting at Olivier!" "At Olivier?" she repeated. "You are mad!" "Yes, at Olivier," he said with an agonized energy; "they took him for me. He must have seen me leave the hotel and he followed me. They were his steps that I heard." "No, I cannot, I will not let you go," she said, standing in front of the door. "Stop here for a few moments, I implore you. It was not Olivier, it could not be he! They will kill you. Oh, my love, I pray you to stay! Do not go, do not leave me!" He had now finished dressing. He thrust her rudely to one side, and said: "Let me go! Let me go!" without a look, without a word of adieu.