“My God, Reine, what does that signify? Are we not to be united in a few days? at Christmas? Is it tiresome to you to hear me speak of my love for you?” Reine uttered a sigh, and looked down without replying. “Listen, Reine,” cried Honorât, with bitterness; “for a month now, there is something in you which is inexplicable; you are no longer the same, you are distracted, preoccupied, taciturn; when I speak to you of our approaching marriage, of our plans, of our future, you answer me with constraint. Again I say, this is not natural. What have you to reproach me for?” “Nothing--oh, nothing, nothing, Honorât, you are the best, the noblest of men!” “But, indeed, only eight days ago, you yourself formally announced to your father your desire that our marriage should take place at Christmas, even if circumstances should prevent the attendance of your uncles, the commander and Father Elzear!” “That is true.” “Well, then, have you changed your mind? Do you wish to postpone it? You do not answer me. My God! what does that mean? Reine, Reine! Ah, I am unhappy indeed!” “My friend, do not despond so; have pity on me. Wait, I am foolish. I am unworthy of your affection. I annoy you,--you are so good, so noble!” “But tell me what is the matter with you? What do you wish?” “I do not know. I suffer--I--Wait, I tell you. I am foolish and weak and very miserable, believe me.” She hid her face in her hands. Honorât, at the height of astonishment, looked at her with an expression of distress. “Ah,” cried he, “if I were less acquainted with the purity of your heart, if evidence even did not prevent the least suspicion, I would believe that a rival had supplanted me in your affection. But no, no, if that were true, I know your sincerity,--you would confess it to me without a blush, because you are incapable of making an unworthy choice. But then, what is it? A month ago, you loved me so much, so you said,--what have I done in one month to deserve such punishment from you? Ah, it is enough to make one insane!” And Honorât de Berrol, a prey to violent grief, plunged almost into despair, walked up and down the room in silence. Reine, overwhelmed, did not dare utter a word. She was almost on the point of confessing all to Honorât, but shame restrained her, and besides, she could not distinctly understand her own impressions. The recital by the Bohemian, the wonderful accident which had just placed the portrait of the unknown before her eyes, increased the curiosity and romantic interest that she felt concerning the stranger, in spite of herself. But was this sentiment love? Again, who was this man? The Bohemian called him the emir of his tribe, but at Marseilles, he and his two companions had passed for Muscovites; how could the truth be unveiled among so many mysteries? And then, would she ever see him again? Was it not idolatry? Was the pathetic incident related by the Bohemian true?