"Well! I believed, yes, I believed, that it was love for another, a love that was not returned, scorned perhaps, and that such unrequited love was the cause of all the grief which you said was without cause and unreasonable." "You believed that,--you!" and she raised her eyes to heaven. "Yes, I believed it; and then I became wild with hate and despair, for every one of your confessions was a wound, an insult, an agony to me,--to me who loved you so fondly." "You could believe that,--you!" repeated Marguerite, gazing on me with painful emotion, while two tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks. "Yes, and I believe it still." "You believe it still. But you must think me infamous. Do you not know?" "I know," I cried out, interrupting her, "I know that I love you to distraction. I know that another man causes you such suffering as I feel for you. Well, then, such thoughts have made me desperate, and I am going away." "You are going away?" "Yes, this very night. I did not dare to see you again. I need all my courage, and I will have it." "You are going to leave me! But _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_--and I!"--cried out Marguerite, and she joined her hands in a gesture that was both suppliant and despairing, and then fell on her knees before a chair that stood near by. How can I ever tell the joy that was awakened in me by that last word of Marguerite's, "and _I_!" It was not simply an avowal of love that I heard, but the agonising cry of her broken heart, which no longer had any hope but in my affection. Although I still believed her to be under the influence of an unrequited passion, I had not the courage to renew the scene I had witnessed in the morning. Still I could not refrain from saying, sadly: "And that portrait?" "Here it is," she replied, handing me the medallion, whose crystal was half broken off. When I held the portrait between my hands I endured for a moment the bitterest anguish; I dared not look at the face, fearing to see the likeness of some one that I knew. When I had overcome this childish terror, I looked at it. It was the face of a stranger! I saw a noble and handsome face whose expression was both mild and severe; the hair was brown, the eyes blue, the whole physiognomy expressed refinement and grace; the costume was very simple, the only decoration being a broad orange ribbon with white edges, and a golden medal worn on the left side of the coat. "And whose portrait is this?" said I, sadly, to Marguerite. "It is the portrait of the man I most loved and respected,--M. de Pënâfiel." She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands. Then I understood it all, and believed that I should die of shame and remorse. This one word tore the veil from the past, and showed me the frightful injustice of my suspicions. "Ah, how you must despise and hate me!" I cried out in my distress. She gave no answer, but held out her hand that I knelt before and kissed with as much veneration as love.