But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any one heard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of the situation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon, and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening. “Excuse me,” he said, entreatingly. “I am suffering so much that I don’t know what I’m doing. I beseech you to take me to Mademoiselle Marguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment.” Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, she was quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded in doing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushed Pascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her, and saying as she did so, “Begone, you scoundrel!” This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stood motionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow. His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to the bottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding, swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stone which he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. All that he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thought that Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? Would God permit such a monstrous iniquity? “No, that shall never be,” he muttered. “I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice may do whatever it likes with me.” He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeance which does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to secure satisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that, although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before--he was not half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, who was waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flush on his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. “Ah, you bring good news,” she exclaimed. His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had given him, saying as he did so, “Read.” Madame Ferailleur’s eyes fell upon the words: “Once more, and for the last time, farewell!” She understood everything, turned very pale, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: “Don’t grieve, my son; the girl did not love you.” “Oh, mother! if you knew----” But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, she said: “I know what it is to love, Pascal--it is to have perfect faith. If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a single doubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubted you. They have told her that you cheated at cards--and she has believed it. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dying count is only an excuse.”