“I am sure she would never have done it,” my companion continued; “however irregular her training--would never perhaps have thought of a step so desperate, but for a book she happened to find one day in her father’s library. She was attracted first by the illustrations, which were by Gravelot and very beautiful; then she became absorbed in the story, a translation from the English, which related the adventures of a young lady who ran away from her father to avoid a marriage into which he would have forced her.[B] The results of this flight proved so fortunate,--for by it she won the man she really loved,--that Mlle. de Benseval resolved to emulate it. So she mounted her horse one morning and instead of taking her usual ride, dismissed her groom and spurred away to the house of a friend who, she knew, would sympathize with her and perhaps intercede with her father.” “Oh, it was with him she was in love!” I murmured. “Not in the least, monsieur; she was in love with no one, and this friend was a woman. But that very evening, strangely enough, she met some one whom she fancied she might love; and in the days that followed, when they were much together, she was drawn very near to him; for she saw that he loved her truly. And at last, in a moment of trial when he held her in his arms, she confessed that she loved him in return.” “Well,” I said with a sigh of relief, “it appears to me then that I need think no more of Mlle. de Benseval. Let us dismiss her--there is another topic----” “Wait,” she said; “I fear you will find yourself thinking a great deal about her before long. For after that one moment of utter joy she drew away from her lover, held him at a distance, was unkind to him, although all the while she was longing to throw herself on his bosom and draw his arms close about her!” “What!” I said incredulously. “She did that? Was she mad, then?” “No; she was a woman, and she played with him because that is woman’s nature.” “Yet she knew he loved her!” “Yes,” she answered, her eyes glowing more and more. “She knew he loved her, deeply and purely, as she could never hope to be loved again; but she resolved to put him to one supreme test. If he stood the test she would adore him, worship him, she would be his, body and soul, through all eternity. If he did not stand it--well, she would still love him!” “And did he stand it?” I asked, moved more and more by this story, to which at first I had listened but indifferently. “Let me finish, and you will see. She returned to her home, she opened her heart to her father, who is really the kindest and noblest of men, and he agreed to assist her in the test. So to-day--this evening----” She faltered, stopped and looked at me, smiling tremulously, her cheeks flooded suddenly with color. “Yes,” I cried; “this evening----” “Oh, it is more difficult than I had thought! How shall I go on? Three months ago, monsieur, there was a death in our family.”