"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to my heart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?" "You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly. "Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one--every single one of them," he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitter in his black eyes. "Not that--_that_ one?" pleaded Helen, piteously. "Yes--that one too--that charming and delightful letter in which you so generously offered to throw yourself upon my protection--do you remember it?" "Alas, only too well!" she murmured, hiding her face in her hands. "Ah!" he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, which resembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey. "Ah! it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out of Paris that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late to rush to your side. You remember how it was, do you not? Your husband was lying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him--ce pauvre mari! Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not? And he was not what you ladies call 'nice;' he did drink, and he did swear, and I had been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to the theatre and the bal d'Opera--do you remember?" "Ah, for Heaven's sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!" cried Helen, despairingly. He went on pitilessly, as though he had not heard her, "And you were good enough to write me several letters--there were one, two, three, four of them," counting them off upon his fingers; "and then came the fifth--that one you wrote when he was ill. Was it not a sad pity that I had gone out of Paris for the day, and never received it till you and your husband had left for England? But think you that I will part with it ever? It is my consolation, my tresor!" "Monsieur D'Arblet, if you have one spark of honour or of gentleman-like feeling, you will give me those mad, foolish letters again. I entreat you to do so. You know that I was beside myself when I wrote them, I was so unhappy--do you not see that they compromise me fatally; that it is my good name, my reputation, which are at stake?" In her agony she had half sunk at his feet on the floor of the carriage, clasping her hands entreatingly together. Monsieur D'Arblet raised her with _empressement_. "Ah, madame, do not thus humiliate yourself at my feet. Why should you be afraid? Are not your good name and your reputation safe in my hands?" Helen burst into bitter tears. "How cruel, how wicked you are!" she cried; "no Englishman would treat a lady in this way." "Your Englishmen are fools, ma chere--and I--I am French!" he replied, shrugging his shoulders expressively. "But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping those wretched letters?" He bent his face down close to hers.