It was indeed the Countess, who, in contempt of propriety, and half-crazed with suffering, had resolved to hear her sentence from Vassigny’s own lips. In vain she had written to him--her letters remained unanswered; in vain she had neglected no means of seeing him--her endeavours had invariably been fruitless. Her heart torn by such ingratitude, and by the scandalous passion Vassigny paraded for Mademoiselle Francine, she had not hesitated to seek an interview in the house of her husband’s cousin. In the sad conversation that ensued, the most touching appeal that tenderness and suffering could inspire was addressed by the Countess de Marsanne to Vassigny. But he was able to impose silence on the passion that devoured him. Divided between his love and the respect due to his plighted word, the two most violent sentiments that find place in man’s bosom, Gaston’s heart bled cruelly; but he triumphed over himself. Words full of the coldest reason issued from his lips; he had sufficient strength to break for ever the tie that bound him to the Countess. These cruel words did not fail of their effect: Madame de Marsanne believed that she had honoured with her tenderness one unable to appreciate its value, and incapable of a generous sacrifice. “‘M. de Vassigny’ she said, ‘you are a heartless man!’” Such was the phrase that terminated this melancholy interview. The heart of Madame de Marsanne was broken, but a guilty love had for ever left it. Some moments after the close of this scene, Vassigny re-entered Kersent’s chamber; but his face was livid, and he could scarcely drag himself along. Without a word, he sank upon a chair and remained plunged in the most gloomy despair. Kersent’s countenance, usually so joyous, had assumed an expression of anguish. He had examined the writing on the card, and he could not conceal from himself that he knew the hand. The scene at the theatre the previous evening came back to his memory: he remembered the strange melancholy of his cousin, her confusion when she returned him the card-ease she had asked to look at; and from all these things combined, he concluded that a fatal secret weighed upon two beings whom he cherished with equal tenderness. On beholding Vassigny’s profound consternation, the sportsman heaved a sigh of deep distress. “‘My dear friend,’ he said to Gaston, ‘a misfortune threatens you: open your heart to me, I conjure you, in the name of our old friendship.’ “Vassigny made no reply. “‘Hear me, Gaston; you know me well enough to be certain that no idle curiosity impels me. Perhaps I can serve you. If I may believe the sad presentiment that fills my heart, you suffer not alone, and the poor woman that suffers with you has a right to all my sympathy. For she who has just left this house, is----’