He took Isidore by the arm and, calling his attention to Raymonde, who was walking in front of them: “Look at her. When she walks, her figure has a little swing at the waist which I cannot see without quivering. But everything in her gives me that thrill of emotion and love: her movements and her repose, her silence and the sound of her voice. I tell you, the mere fact that I am walking in the track of her footsteps makes me feel in the seventh heaven. Ah, Beautrelet, will she ever forget that I was once Lupin? Shall I ever be able to wipe out from her memory the past which she loathes and detests?” He mastered himself and, with obstinate assurance. “She will forget!” he declared. “She will forget, because I have made every sacrifice for her sake. I have sacrificed the inviolable sanctuary of the Hollow Needle, I have sacrificed my treasures, my power, my pride—I will sacrifice everything—I don’t want to be anything more—but just a man in love—and an honest man, because she can only love an honest man. After all, why should I not be honest? It is no more degrading than anything else!” The quip escaped him, so to speak, unawares. His voice remained serious and free of all chaff. And he muttered, with restrained violence: “Ah, Beautrelet, you see, of all the unbridled joys which I have tasted in my adventurous life, there is not one that equals the joy with which her look fills me when she is pleased with me. I feel quite weak then, and I should like to cry—” Was he crying? Beautrelet had an intuition that his eyes were wet with tears. Tears in Lupin’s eyes!—Tears of love! They were nearing an old gate that served as an entrance to the farm. Lupin stopped for a moment and stammered: “Why am I afraid?—I feel a sort of weight on my chest. Is the adventure of the Hollow Needle not over? Has destiny not accepted the issue which I selected?” Raymonde turned round, looking very anxious. “Here comes Césarine. She’s running.” The exciseman’s wife was hurrying from the farm as fast as she could. Lupin rushed up to her: “What is it? What has happened? Speak!” Choking, quite out of breath, Césarine stuttered: “A man—I saw a man this morning! “A man—I saw a man in the sitting-room.” “The Englishman of this morning?” “Yes—but in a different disguise.” “Did he see you?” “No. He saw your mother. Mme. Valméras caught him as he was just going away.” “Well?” “He told her that he was looking for Louis Valméras, that he was a friend of yours.” “Then?” “The madame said that her son had gone abroad—for years.” “And he went away?” “No, he made signs through the window that overlooks the plain—as if he were calling to some one.” Lupin seemed to hesitate. A loud cry tore the air. Raymonde moaned: “It’s your mother—I recognize—” He flung himself upon her and, dragging her away, in a burst of fierce passion: “Come—let us fly—you first.” But, suddenly, he stopped, distraught, overcome: