“I am still resolved to go to him--but as an humble suppliant. And I shall say to him, ‘You are suffering, but no sorrow is intolerable when there are two to bear the burden; and so, here I am. Everything else may fail you--your dearest friends may basely desert you; but here am I. Whatever your plans may be--whether you have decided to leave Europe or to remain in Paris to watch for your hour of vengeance, you will need a faithful, trusty companion--a confidant--and here I am! Wife, friend, sister--I will be which ever you desire. I am yours--yours unconditionally.’” And as if in reply to a gesture of surprise which escaped the magistrate, she added: “He is unhappy--I am free--I love him!” The magistrate was struck dumb with astonishment. He knew that she would surely do what she said; he had realized that she was one of those generous, heroic women who are capable of any sacrifice for the man they love--a woman who would never shrink from what she considered to be her duty, who was utterly incapable of weak hesitancy or selfish calculation. “Fortunately, my dear young lady, your devotion will no doubt be useless,” he said at last. “And why?” “Because M. Ferailleur owes it to you, and, what is more, he owes it to himself, not to accept such a sacrifice.” Failing to understand his meaning, she looked at him inquiringly. “You will forgive me, I trust,” he continued, “if I warn you to prepare for a disappointment. Innocent or guilty, M. Ferailleur is--disgraced. Unless something little short of a miracle comes to help him, his career is ended. This is one of those charges--one of those slanders, if you prefer that term, which a man can never shake off. So how can you hope that he will consent to link your destiny to his?”