She ceased, and, pressing her hands upon her bosom, gazed out through the window, as if indeed she saw before her the heavenly vision of which she spoke. Then, after a little time, the invalid broke the silence, saying:-- ‘I think I understand you. I, too, have known such a man as you describe--all goodness, all kindness--so different to the rest. But I brought great misery to him, and sometimes I think his heart must be quite broken. That is what fills me with despair.’ ‘Truly, mademoiselle?’ ‘Yes. If I could be certain that he was happy, that he had forgotten me, I should not mind.’ ‘Was he your lover, mademoiselle?’ asked Adèle, suddenly looking into her companion’s eye. ‘He was my husband,’ was the reply. Adèle uttered an exclamation. ‘Ah, that is different!’ she cried in wonder. ‘And--and--you left him, _madame?_’ ‘Yes, Adèle.’ ‘Although you loved him so much!’ ‘Because I loved him.’ ‘And does he live, _madame?_’ Again the softly summoned word ‘madame,’ so significant of a new curiosity and a new respect. ‘Yes, he lives, unless he has died of sorrow. I brought disgrace upon him; it was unhappy for him that we ever met; and so--I left him.’ ‘Does he know you are _here_, madame?’ Jane Peartree started nervously; then, smiling sadly at her own terror, shook her head. ‘God forbid!’ ‘And you are really _his wife_, madame?’ ‘Yes.’ Adèle walked to the window thoughtfully, and stood there continuing the conversation. ‘It must be so dreadful,’ she said, ‘for husband and wife to part. I was never married, madame, but I understand. A little time ago I was reading in an English newspaper, of an English merchant, a rich man, whose wife left him suddenly, and no one knew why. She had been an actress in the theatre, and he had fallen in love with her upon the stage. Then, owing to some disagreement, she ran away.’ Fortunately, Adèle was not looking at her companion; otherwise she would have been startled by the change that had come over her. Leaning back in her invalid chair, with the last trace of colour faded from her cheek, and her form trembling violently, she murmured, in a voice of forced composure-- ‘Yes;--and did she return?’ ‘Ah, no, madame. The lady drowned herself that very night, and the body was afterwards found in the _Morgue_, at the police station, and identified by her husband. It was the account of the inquest which I read in the journals. Though the body had been long in the water, and was quite disfigured, the husband recognised it at once.’ ‘But how?’ ‘Easily. By the clothes upon it, and by a pair of bracelets which the gentleman’s sister had given to the lady, as a birthday gift.’ The invalid uttered a low moan, and Adèle, approaching her, saw with surprise that she had fainted in her chair.