“Less than a fortnight after this scene, Genevieve had allowed the count to perceive that he was not indifferent to her and a month later she became his wife. “The count, on his side, had acted with the utmost delicacy and tact; so that no one suspected the cruel position of the Marquis de Tassar. He had placed two hundred thousand francs in his hands to settle his most pressing debts. In his marriage-contract he had acknowledged having received with his wife a dower of the same amount; and finally, he had bound himself to pay to his father-in-law and his wife an annual income of ten thousand francs. This had absorbed more than half of all he possessed.” M. Magloire no longer thought of protesting. Sitting stiffly on his chair, his eyes wide open, like a man who asks himself whether he is asleep or awake, he murmured,-- “That is incomprehensible! That is unheard of!” Jacques was becoming gradually excited. He went on,-- “This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours of enthusiasm. But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that was perfectly natural. ‘Certainly,’ she said, ‘Count Claudieuse has never had to regret the bargain he made. If he has been generous, I have been faithful. My father owes his life to him; but I have given him years of happiness to which he was not entitled. If he has received no love, he has had all the appearance of it, and an appearance far more pleasant than the reality.’ “When I could not conceal my astonishment, she added, laughing heartily,-- “‘Only I brought to the bargain a mental reservation. I reserved to myself the right to claim my share of earthly happiness whenever it should come within my reach. That share is yours, Jacques; and do not fancy that I am troubled by remorse. As long as my husband thinks he is happy, I am within the terms of the contract.’ “That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of more experience would have been frightened. But I was a child; I loved her with all my heart. I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms. “A letter from Count Claudieuse aroused us from our dreams. “The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of her whole life: she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreed upon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her. “‘I must go back to Valpinson,’ she said; ‘for there is nothing I would not do to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself. My life, your life, my daughter’s life--I would give them all, without hesitation, to protect my reputation.” “This happened--ah! the dates have remained fixed in my mind as if engraven on bronze--on the 12th October. “‘I cannot remain longer than a month,’ she said to me, ‘without seeing you. A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at three o’clock precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the Red Men’s Cross-roads. I will be there.’