“Everything except some views of the country and some impressions which engraved themselves more deeply on my childish eyes and ears—pictures that I have never ceased to see since—noises, the chiming of bells which I still hear as if they were chiming still.” “And it is these impressions and images that your enemies wish to know, hoping to get at the truth by means of what you can tell them?” he asked. “Yes.” “But how did they know?” “Because my mother was so imprudent as not to destroy certain letters in which my grandfather alluded to the secret which had been intrusted to me. Bregeac, who found those letters, later, never spoke to me of them during my ten years here, ten delightful years, the best years of my life. But the very day I returned to Paris, two years ago, he questioned me about them. I told him what I told you, as I had the right to do, but refused to disclose any of the vague memories which might have put him on the track. After that it was a constant persecution—reproaches, abuse, terrible rages—up to the very moment I resolved to fly.” “Alone?” She flushed and replied: “No. But under conditions you may believe. William Ancivel was paying court to me, with great discretion, pretending to be a friend who wished to be useful to me without any hope of being rewarded for it. So he won, if not my sympathy, at least my confidence, and I made the great mistake of informing him of my intention of flying.” “And no doubt he approved of it?” “He approved of it warmly, and helped me in my preparations by selling some jewels and securities left me by my mother. On the eve of my flight, since I was uncertain exactly where to take refuge, he said to me: ‘I have just come from Nice and I have to return there to-morrow. Would you like me to escort you there? At this time of year you will not find a quieter place of retreat than the Riviera.’ What motive could I have had for refusing his offer? It is true that I did not love him; but he appeared to be entirely devoted to me. I accepted it.” “How imprudent!” said Ralph. “Yes,” she said. “And the more imprudent since we were not on those terms of friendship which would excuse such behavior. But what would you? I was alone in the world, unhappy and persecuted. A helping hand was stretched out to me—for a few hours as I thought. We started.” Aurelie hesitated for a few moments; then she went on with her story more quickly.