"I am alone; no one here knows me or pays any attention to me. Let us sit down on this stone bench, for I am not well; and, for the love of heaven, tell me about my parents! It is a whole year since I have heard their names." "Your parents!" said Henryet sadly; "there is one of them who no longer weeps for you." "My father is dead!" I cried, rising. Henryet did not reply. I fell back, utterly crushed, on the bench, and said under my breath: "My God, who wilt soon reunite us, bid him forgive me!" "Your mother," said Henryet, "was ill a long while. Then she tried to find relief in society; but she had lost her beauty with much weeping, and could find no consolation there." "My father dead," I said, clasping my nerveless hands, "my mother aged and heart-broken! What of my aunt?" "Your aunt tries to console your mother by proving that you do not deserve her regrets; but your mother will not listen to her and fades more and more every day in solitude and weariness. And you, madame?" Henryet uttered these last three words in a chilling tone, in which, however, I could detect compassion beneath the apparent contempt. "I, as you see, am dying." He took my hand and tears came to his eyes. "Poor girl!" he said to me; "it is not my fault. I did all that I could to keep you from falling over the precipice, but you insisted." "Do not speak of that," I said; "it is impossible for me to discuss it with you. Tell me if my mother tried to find me after my flight?" "Your mother sought you, but not earnestly enough. Poor woman! she was thunderstruck and lost her presence of mind. There is no vigor in the blood that you inherit." "That is true," said I indifferently. "We were all indolent and placid in my family. Did my mother hope that I would return?" "She hoped so, foolishly and childishly. She still expects you and will expect you till her last breath." I began to sob. Henryet let me weep without saying a word. I believe that he was weeping too. I wiped my eyes to ask him if my mother had been distressed by my dishonor, if she blushed for me, if she still dared to mention my name. "She has it always on her lips," he replied. "She tells her grief to everybody; people are a little tired of the story now, and they smile when your mother begins to sob; or else they avoid her, saying: 'Here comes Madame Ruyter to tell us about her daughter's abduction again!'" I listened to this without anger and said, raising my eyes to his: "And do you despise me, Henryet?" "I no longer love you or esteem you," he replied; "but I pity you and I am at your service. My purse is at your disposal. Do you wish to write to your mother? Would you like me to take you back to her? Speak, and do not fear to abuse me. I am not acting from affection but from a sense of duty. You have no idea, Juliette, how much sweeter life becomes to those who lay down rules for themselves and observe them." I made no reply.