My house of cards tumbled down in a second. The French officer was M. Armand. With the habit women have of treasuring tokens of the things which have happened, Mademoiselle Sophie had kept all these trifling notes and messages, and had even gathered to them the letters written to her mother, so that the story might be complete. But without M. Armand's knowledge; he was not to know; her pride must guard her secret from him. For she was the lover and he only the friend, and she knew it. Even in the little speech which he had just made, there was just too much formality, just too little sincerity of voice. I understood why she had tried to throw the ebony box down into the hall so that I might open it there--I understood that I had caused her great humiliation. But that was not all there was for me to understand. In answer to Armand she raised her eyes quietly, and shook her head. "You wish to spare me shame," she said, "and I thank you very much. But it is because of these letters that you spoke. I must think that. I must always think it." "No!" he exclaimed. "But yes," she replied firmly. "If monsieur had not unlocked that box--I don't know--but some day perhaps--oh, not yet, no, not yet--but some day perhaps you might have come of your own accord and said what you have just said. And I should have been very happy. But now you never must. For you see I shall always think that the letters are prompting you." And M. Armand bowed. I had taken from her her chance of happiness. The friendship between them might have ended in marriage if left to itself. But I had not left it to itself. "Mademoiselle," I said, "I am very sorry." She turned her dark eyes on me. "Monsieur, I warned you. It is too late to be sorry." And as I stood shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other, in great remorse as she had foretold, she added, gently, "Will you not go, monsieur?"