"Because _I_ never knew a lady yet, who was otherwise than innocent." She looked at him with a lowering contempt--he thought it _guilt_--for a few moments, then dropping her gaze gloomily, she murmured, in bitter abstraction-- "Yes, it was base of De Secqville; he ought to have perished rather." "Egad," thought Blassemare, "my project prospers--she is at my mercy--and disgusted with the Marquis. I'm no general or she surrenders at discretion." "De Secqville, madame, is a handsome fellow; but he admires nobody but himself. He has been all his life--and trust me, he is not quite so young as he pretends--a man of intrigue. He is not content with his _bonnes fortunes_, but he boasts of his conquests, and sacrifices reputations to his vanity. Such men are not to be trusted with impunity, or loved without disgrace. It is best never to have favored them, and next best to discard them promptly." He fancied his speech had hit the fierce temper of his auditor. He paused for a time, to let it work, and then, in a tone of profound humility, said-- "As for me, madame, if one so unworthy dare invite a passing thought of yours, I have but to ask your forgiveness; if I have said one word that gave you pain, I implore your forgiveness." Here he sank upon his knee. Lucille was by no means as experienced in the ways of the wicked gender as many younger women. Blassemare looked very humble, and she took his humility in good faith. She looked on him then with a softened aspect, and the heart of the profligate beat thick with anticipated triumph. "You have had, madame, in these recent transactions, signal proofs of my fidelity. The secret so lightly esteemed by De Secqville, _I_ would rather lose my last drop of blood than reveal to a living mortal. I am secrecy itself. Judge what I have endured. I have striven--how vainly my own heart tells me--to hide the sentiments of my soul from you, madame. I could see with comparative indifference the happiness of that rival whom the forms of law, and not the preference of the heart, had elevated; but judge how I could endure the fortune of an unworthy and faithless competitor. Imagine, if you can, my despair. Compassionate, I conjure you, my misery, and with one relenting word or look of pity, raise me from the abyss, and see at your feet the happiest, as he is the most devoted, of mortals." At the same moment Blassemare attempted to take Lucille's hand; it was, however, instantly withdrawn, and the back of it, instead, struck him in the face, with all the force of enraged and insulted pride. "How dare you, sirrah, hold such language to me--how _dare_ you? Another word, and I denounce you to my husband--ay, sir, _I_--to Monsieur Le Prun. I defy you."