Until this moment Cecily's accent had been sarcastic, but she pronounced these last words with a serious, reflecting tone, and accompanied them with a look which made the notary start. "Silence! Do not look at me thus,--you will drive me mad! I would rather you denied me,--at least, I could then hate you,--drive you from my house!" cried Jacques Ferrand, who again gave himself up to a vain hope. "Yes, for I should then hope nothing from you. But, misery! Misery! I know you well enough now to hope, in spite of myself, that one day I might, from your very hate or proud caprice, obtain what I shall never owe to your love. You bid me convince you of my passion,--do you not see how unhappy I am? I will do all I can to please you. You desire to, be concealed from all eyes, and from all eyes I conceal you, perchance at the risk of compromising myself most seriously; for, indeed, I know not who you are. I respect your secret,--I never speak to you of it. I have interrogated you as to your past life, and you have given me no answer." "Well, then, I was very wrong. I'll give you a mark of blind confidence, oh, master, dear! And so, listen." "Another bitter jest, no doubt." "No, a serious tale. You ought, at least, to know the life of her to whom you afford such generous hospitality." Then Cecily continued, in a tone of hypocritical and lachrymose earnestness, "Daughter of a brave soldier, brother of my Aunt Pipelet, I received an education, beyond my condition. I was seduced, and then abandoned, by a rich young gentleman; then, to escape the anger of my father, whose notions of honour were most strict, I fled my native country." Then bursting into a loud fit of laughter, Cecily added, "Now I hope that's what you call a very pretty and particularly probable tale, for it has been very often told. Amuse your curiosity with that until you get hold of some other story more interesting." "I was certain it was some cruel jest," said the notary, with concentrated rage; "nothing touches you,--nothing. What must I do? Tell me. I serve you like the lowest footboy, for you I neglect my dearest interests,--I no longer know what I do. I am a subject of astonishment and derision to my own clerks; my clients hesitate any longer to entrust me with their affairs; I have severed my connection with some religious persons whom I knew intimately. I dare not think of what the world will say of my change of demeanour and habits. But you do not know,--no, you do not know the fatal consequences my mad passion for you may entail on me. Yet I give you ample proof of my devotion. Will you have more? Speak! Is it gold you would have? They think me richer than I am, but I--" "What could I do with your gold?" asked Cecily, interrupting the notary, and shrugging her shoulders; "living in this chamber, what is the use of gold? Your invention is at fault."