“At liberty, yes, of course you were at liberty. What do you care for the distress, the torture you may cause others? Perhaps you laugh at it in secret. I see that there was no mistake in what people said of you. And yet the portrait was not flattering. However, you must have heard it yourself yesterday. Was it the truth, monsieur?” “Yes, mademoiselle.” “So you abandoned your wife without cause, without lawful reason?” “Yes, mademoiselle.” “And you saw her condition, her suffering--and it did not touch you? you did not throw yourself at her feet and ask her pardon for your wrongdoing?--Oh! you are a monster!” She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and wept and sobbed. I could do nothing but sigh and hold my peace. At last she continued: “You must go back to your wife, monsieur; it is your duty. Won’t you do it? Remember what an effect the sight of you had upon her! Poor woman! how far I was from suspecting! And that does not make you repent of your conduct? Mon Dieu! your heart is pitiless! Ah! I had not formed that opinion of you.--But, Monsieur Dalbreuse--that name alone comes to my mind--promise me, swear to me that you will go back to your wife.” “No, mademoiselle, I cannot make you a promise which I have no intention of keeping. We are parted forever.” “Forever! In that case, monsieur, I must bid you adieu, and forever also; it would not be proper for me to see again a man who has represented himself to be what he is not. You had not enough confidence in me to tell me.--But, after all, what could he have told me? That he had abandoned his wife and children. Oh, no! such a confidence would have aroused my indignation; it was much better to be agreeable, to try to please me, to conceal the fact that he was bound for life; for that is the way you behaved toward me. And yet, monsieur, if I had loved you, if I had allowed myself to be seduced by these deceitful appearances, would you have made me unhappy too?--Well! why don’t you answer me, monsieur?” “I believe, mademoiselle, that I have never said a word to you which could lead you to believe that----” “No, that is true, you have said nothing to me. I am a coquette, a foolish girl. Oh, no! you have never tried to please me.--But you have my portrait, and it seems to me that it is useless, to say the least, for you to keep it: for I trust that we shall never see each other again, monsieur.” “Here it is, mademoiselle; I intended to send it to you from the first post-office.” Caroline took, or rather, snatched the portrait from my hands; at that moment a servant called me and Pettermann shouted that the horses were ready. I rose: Caroline did the same; but at the first step that I took she seized my arm and said to me in an imploring tone: