“I did not think it necessary.” Maxence insisted no more; but, by the sharp pang that he felt, he realized how dear Mlle. Lucienne had become to him. “She has secrets from me,” thought he,--“from me who would deem it a crime to have any from her.” What secrets? Had she concealed from him that she was pursuing an object which had become, as it were, that of her whole life. Had she not told him, that with the assistance of her friend the peace-officer, who had now become commissary of police of the district, she hoped to penetrate the mystery of her birth, and to revenge herself on the villains, who, three times, had attempted to do away with her? She had never mentioned her projects again; but it was evident that she had not abandoned them, for she would at the same time have given up her rides to the bois, which were to her an abominable torment. But passion can neither reason nor discuss. “She mistrusts me, who would give my life for hers,” repeated Maxence. And the idea was so painful to him, that he resolved to clear his doubts at any cost, preferring the worst misery to the anxiety which was gnawing at his heart. And as soon as he found himself alone with Mlle. Lucienne, arming himself with all his courage, and looking her straight in the eyes, “You never speak to me any more of your enemies?” he said. She doubtless understood what was passing within him. “It’s because I don’t hear any thing of them myself,” she answered gently. “Then you have given up your purpose?” “Not at all.” “What are your hopes, then, and what are your prospects?” “Extraordinary as it may seem to you, I must confess that I know nothing about it. My friend the commissary has his plan, I am certain; and he is following it with an indefatigable obstinacy. I am but an instrument in his hands. I never do any thing without consulting him; and what he advises me to do I do.” Maxence started upon his chair. “Was it he, then,” he said in a tone of bitter irony, “who suggested to you the idea of our fraternal association?” A frown appeared upon the girl’s countenance. She evidently felt hurt by the tone of this species of interrogatory. “At least he did not disapprove of it,” she replied. But that answer was just evasive enough to excite Maxence’s anxiety. “Was it from him too,” he went on, “that came the lovely idea of having me enter the Mutual Credit?” “Yes, it was from him.” “For what purpose?” “He did not explain.” “Why did you not tell me?” “Because he requested me not to do so.” From being red at the start, Maxence had now become very pale. “And so,” he resumed, “it is that man, that police-agent, who is the real arbiter of my fate; and if to-morrow he commanded you to break off with me--” Mlle. Lucienne drew herself up.