“Alas! my poor Pierre, my affection was only friendship, and my heart has not changed toward you. The love which I now feel is quite different. If it had not come to me, I might have been your wife. And I esteemed you so much, that I should have been happy. But now I understand the difference. You, whom I had accepted, would never have been more to me than a tender companion; he whom I have chosen will be my master.” Pierre uttered a cry at this cruel and frank avowal. “Ah! how you hurt me!” And bitter tears rolled down his face to the relief of his overburdened heart. He sank on to a seat, and for a moment gave way to violent grief. Micheline, more touched by his despair than she had been by his reproaches, went to him and wiped his face with her lace handkerchief. Her white hand was close to the young man’s mouth,--and he kissed it eagerly. Then, as if roused by the action, he rose with a changed look in his eyes, and seized the young girl in his arms. Micheline did not utter a word. She looked coldly and resolutely at Pierre, and threw back her head to avoid the contact of his eager lips. That look was enough. The arms which held her were unloosed, and Pierre moved away, murmuring: “I beg your pardon. You see I am not in my right mind.” Then passing his hand across his forehead as if to chase away a wicked thought, he added: “So it is irrevocable? You love him?” “Enough to give you so much pain; enough to be nobody’s unless I belong to him.” Pierre reflected a moment, then, coming to a decision: “Go, you are free,” said he; “I give you back your promise.” Micheline uttered a cry of triumph, which made him who had been her betrothed turn pale. She regretted not having hidden her joy better. She approached Pierre and said: “Tell me that you forgive me!” “I forgive you.” “You still weep?” “Yes; I am weeping over my lost happiness. I thought the best means of being loved were to deserve it. I was mistaken. I will courageously atone for my error. Excuse my weakness, and believe that you will never have a more faithful and devoted friend than I.” Micheline gave him her hand, and, smiling, bowed her forehead to his lips. He slowly impressed a brotherly kiss, which effaced the burning trace of the one which he had stolen a moment before. At the same time a deep voice was heard in the distance, calling Pierre. Micheline trembled. “‘Tis my mother,” she said. “She is seeking you. I will leave you. Adieu, and a thousand thanks from my very heart.” And nimbly springing behind a clump of lilac-trees in flower, Micheline disappeared. Pierre mechanically went toward the house. He ascended the marble steps and entered the drawing-room. As he shut the door, Madame Desvarennes appeared. CHAPTER V. A CRITICAL INTERVIEW