“And you refuse to aid me in establishing his innocence? O God! what ideas men form of their duty! How can I move you? How can I convince you? Must I remind you of the torture this man suffers, whom they charge with being an assassin? Must I tell you what horrible anguish we suffer, we, his friends, his relatives?--how his mother weeps, how I weep, I, his betrothed! We know he is innocent; and yet we cannot establish his innocence for want of a friend who would aid us, who would pity us!” In all his life the clerk had not heard such burning words. He was moved to the bottom of his heart. At last he asked, trembling,-- “What do you want me to do, madam?” “Oh! very little, sir, very little,--just to send M. de Boiscoran ten lines, and to bring us his reply.” The boldness of the request seemed to stun the clerk. He said,-- “Never!” “You will not have pity?” “I should forfeit my honor.” “And, if you let an innocent one be condemned, what would that be?” Mechinet was evidently suffering anguish. Amazed, overcome, he did not know what to say, what to do. At last he thought of one reason for refusing, and stammered out,-- “And if I were found out? I should lose my place, ruin my sisters, destroy my career for life.” With trembling hands, Dionysia drew from her pocket the bonds which her grandfather had given her, and threw them in a heap on the table. She began,-- “There are twenty thousand francs.” The clerk drew back frightened. He cried,-- “Money! You offer me money!” “Oh, don’t be offended!” began the young girl again, with a voice that would have moved a stone. “How could I want to offend you, when I ask of you more than my life? There are services which can never be paid. But, if the enemies of M. de Boiscoran should find out that you have aided us, their rage might turn against you.” Instinctively the clerk unloosed his cravat. The struggle within him, no doubt, was terrible. He was stifled. “Twenty thousand francs!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Is it not enough?” asked the young girl. “Yes, you are right: it is very little. But I have as much again for you, twice as much.” With haggard eyes, Mechinet had approached the table, and was convulsively handling the pile of papers, while he repeated,-- “Twenty thousand francs! A thousand a year!” “No, double that much, and moreover, our gratitude, our devoted friendship, all the influence of the two families of Boiscoran and Chandore; in a word, fortune, position, respect.” But by this time, thanks to a supreme effort of will, the clerk had recovered his self-control. “No more, madam, say no more!” And with a determined, though still trembling voice, he went on,--