"No; he seemed to prefer waiting until he was sure of her consent." "She is before you!" "You!" Claude seemed overwhelmed at this revelation; finally he said, "But you know it is impossible!" "Why?" He did not reply, so she continued: "Because I have loved you? Your step-son knows it; that is, he knows that I have loved before. He forgave me, for he has a noble heart. So I can never marry? My life is to be blasted for ever? I can not marry a man that I, at least, esteem and admire? But how will he ever know you were my first love? You are incapable of the cowardice of betraying my secret, and no one else knows it." "But it would be wrong to marry the son, after having loved the father." She parted her hair which had fallen over her pale face, and, gazing fixedly at him, said: "After having loved you? I love you still! I have struggled to forget, but in vain. The thought of you is always gnawing, gnawing at my heart. At the idea of becoming your daughter, I shouted in my joy, for I was saved! Duty will succeed where every thing else has failed, and I shall be free from this disgraceful love which is my despair!" As her dark eyes flamed in their anguish, Claude hesitated, then repeated: "This marriage shall never take place." "Who will prevent it?" "I will." "You can not! I defy you to do your utmost. You can not prevent it now!" CHAPTER VII. Four weeks later Odette's marriage took place. Odette was right when she said Claude would find it impossible to prevent it. The only way in which it could have been done, would have been to tell Paul of that passionate love in Odette's heart; and Claude, of course, could not reveal her secret. As time passed on, he became more accustomed to the idea; and resolving to see as little of Odette as possible in the future, and always to be formally ceremoniously reserved whenever he was obliged to meet her, he was forced to let things take their course. Among the witnesses to the ceremony was Grenoble, Claude's most intimate friend. He is celebrated for his sparkling, witty conversation in all the salons of Paris. For twenty-five years, he was one of that noble army of martyrs who fling themselves before the Juggernaut car of art. His genius as a sculptor made him famous, but left him to starve. We often think that genius is all that is necessary to win fame and riches, and we are usually right as regards painting and literature; but it is different with music and sculpture. When an earnest, talented sculptor is poor, his life is one long torture. His only income is what he occasionally receives for some small statuette, which the dealers condescend to buy--merely an aggravation, when, like Grenoble, one's imagination is teeming with grand statues, immortal works of art.