“You may imagine that I was happy,--very happy. When I had looked at you all the evening, I returned home, only to indulge in dreams the most charming you can conceive. You were born, like me, at Capelette. When I saw this portrait in which you appear as a peasant, I believed that my dreams were to be realized. I fancied that I arose early in the morning to behold you sleeping. Then I went to gather flowers to strew the path where you loved to walk. I said to my father, ‘Father, you wish to know where the true is to be found. The true is happiness.’ My father called you his daughter, and thanked you for having brought joy to his household. In the evening we went to the banks of the river. You sang; and I was happy. All this seemed like reality, and I felt myself living with you and for you. I thought I passed entire days by your side. One day, we were seated on the rock of La Jouve, whence a young maiden threw herself into the river because the one she loved had ceased to love her in return. I had a gun with me, and was about to fire at a bird, when you said, ‘Do not kill it,’ and laid your hand gently upon my shoulder. I spared the bird, and kissed the spot where your hand had touched me. You see, I recall all this, yet know that it was only a dream. “One day, I was in the country with three friends. They succeeded in wringing my secret from me. Then they censured and mocked me. They said--they are cowards! Do not force me to repeat what they said. If you will not pardon me, I will kill them.” “Tell me all. My pardon is granted on that condition.” “Well, they told me--ah! it is too bad! I repeat it only to be assured of pardon--for it burns my lips--they told me that you were a worthless woman, without heart, without soul, a creature cursed of God, selling yourself to all who would buy. After having suffered for three days and three nights, I have taken my money and have come to make the purchase. Pardon me now; for I have told you all.” “You wish to buy me,” said Adéonne, whose countenance had reflected no emotion whatever during this strange recital: “are you, then, so rich?” “I have here all that I possess,--forty-eight thousand francs.” “And you think that for this sum I will give myself to you for eternity?” said the cantatrice, smiling. “No; but for a moment I have had the foolish hope that for this money, and through pity, you would permit me to look at you, to touch your hand, to hear your voice, and then, at sunset, I would depart so happy as to bless your memory forever.” “What? Only for a day?” “Three hours,--two,--one.” “On your word?” “I have never lied.” “Be seated,” said Adéonne, coldly. Then the cantatrice summoned her _femme de chambre_, to whom she said,-- “Jenny, I am not at home to anybody.” CHAPTER XXIV.