Supposing, too, that on an understanding with Iris, she had authorised this communication in order to persuade M. de Brévannes that her wrongs were effaced by love, such a thing could only flatter him. We may thus easily comprehend that he continued the reading of the black book with increasing hope and interest. "What can this man want? He has contrived to have an interview with Iris--poor ingenuous girl!--and has proposed to her to convey a letter to me, which she refused. What can he wish? What audacity! How can he support even my look? "The man is mad! What has he to say to me? Can he think to excuse his conduct? But I...... "Yesterday I could not proceed: I was interrupted by my husband's arrival. "The prince has, then, all his life studied the effects of grief in order to aim his blows more surely. He is a monster! His refinements of torture are unheard of. Oh, now I understand why I do not hate M. de Brévannes sufficiently: all my hatred is employed against my torturer. "And to be for life--for life, linked to this man! To be unable to break this chain, so odious, except by death! "Then let it strike me, let it strike me speedily, since one of us must die in order to break this horrible union; let it be me rather than my husband." M. de Brévannes shuddered at these words, and exclaimed, as he addressed Iris,-- "Is the princess, then, very unhappy?" "Very unhappy!" replied Iris, gloomily. "Her husband is without sympathy for her?" "Quite so." De Brévannes continued reading:-- "Yes, yes--death! I do not deserve to live; I have been faithless to the memory of Raphael; I do not deserve any commiseration. If my husband is a monster of cruelty, what, then, am I, who cannot turn away my thoughts from the man who has caused all my evils by killing my betrothed? "Oh, I am ashamed of myself. I must note down these horrible things, that I may see them, then, in substance, under my eyes, in order to believe them possible. "To reach, oh, heavens! so low a depth of abasement! "Is it my fault, too? Grief depraves so much. Yes, it depraves, renders criminal; for, sometimes weighed down by despair, I exclaim, 'Since it was written in M. de Brévannes' destiny that he should be a murderer, why did not fate, instead of giving up Raphael to his blows, place my tormentor in his way?'" Here the pages ended. Iris had no doubt wished to leave M. de Brévannes to reflect, at his leisure, on this homicidal wish. He exclaimed, as he shut the book suddenly,-- "Iris, have you read nothing of what is written here?" The young girl appeared not to have heard these words, but looked steadfastly at him. "Iris," he repeated, "you have not read these pages?" "No, no," she said, starting from her reverie; "what is the book to me?" "She thinks of nothing but me," he thought; "there is nothing to fear from her indiscretion." He locked the book again, and handed it to the young girl, saying to her,--