"Shall I tell you, belle Helene? It is this: You are beautiful and you have talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, you will have money--then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, with that precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You will marry me, ma chere, or I will make public these letters.' Do you see? Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty as much as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you will not venture to marry--because I have these letters?" "You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly. "Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care to be your husband after he had read that last letter--the fifth, you know?" No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion. Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she did not raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she had buried it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage. "Now," he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to your house. We have had our little talk, have we not?" The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door. "Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness," said D'Arblet, raising his hat politely. In another minute he was gone, and Helen, hoping that the darkness had concealed the traces of her agitation from the servant's prying eyes, was driven on, more dead than alive, to her grandfather's house. CHAPTER VII. EVENING REVERIES. For nothing on earth is sadder Than the dream that cheated the grasp, The flower that turned to the adder, The fruit that changed to the asp, When the dayspring in darkness closes, As the sunset fades from the hills, With the fragrance of perished roses, And the music of parched-up rills. A. L. Gordon. It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris, when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of a man so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet.