"Monsieur, I will not speak to you of my love for my husband--my Philippe! I will not speak to you of how we have been parted for a year--a whole, long year--_mon Dieu_, Monsieur, _mon Dieu!_ I will not speak to you of how, every instant of that long, long year I have thought of him, of how I have yearned for him, of how I have longed for one touch of his hand, one word from his lips, one glance from his eyes. No, Monsieur, I will not speak to you of all these things. And for this reason: That, with me all things are finished. I go, never to return again. My face--you have made immortal; the rest of me--will perish. For the woman whose heart is broken there remains but one place--the grave. It is to that place I go!" The lady had become as tragic as her husband--even more so, in her way. She moved across the room with the air of a tragedy queen--Parisian. The Vicomte was visibly affected. He fastened a convulsive clutch upon M. Berigny's arm. "Victor, tell me, what shall I do? Advise me, oh, my friend! This is a critical moment in my life! It is impossible that I should let her go. Antoinette!" The Vicomte advanced, just in time, between the lady and the door. "Monsieur, I entreat of you this last boon, to let me go. You have insulted me in the presence of a stranger; for me, therefore, nothing else remains. You have inquired if you should kill me. No, Philippe, you need not kill me; it is myself I will kill!" "Antoinette!" "I am no longer Antoinette; I am the woman whose happiness you have destroyed. It is only when I am dead that you will learn what is written on my heart for you." "Antoinette," the strong man's voice faltered, "Antoinette, am I never, then, to be forgiven?" There was a momentary pause. Then the lady held out both her hands. "Philippe!" "My heart! my soul! thou treasure of my life! thou star of my existence! Is it possible that a cloud should have interposed itself between thy path and mine?" He took her in his arms. He pressed her to his breast. M. Berigny turned away. From his attitude it almost seemed as if the soldier--the man of ramrods and of bayonets!--wiped away a tear. "Philippe! Take care, or you will derange my hat!" "Antoinette! My beautiful, my own!" "Philippe, do you not think you should apologize--take care, my friend, or you certainly will derange my hat!--to the stranger who has made immortal the face of the woman who loved you better than her life--my friend, take care!--who has made her appear on canvas so much more beautiful than she is in life?" "No, Antoinette, that I will not have. It is impossible. Beauty such as yours in not to be rendered by a painter's brush!" "If that be so, all the more reason why we should be grateful to Mr. Lovell for endeavouring the impossible." The lady peeped at Mr. Lovell with the quaintest malice in her eyes.