I took both her hands in mine:

"I believe you, I swear it--I swear that I esteem you--that I respect you
as a beloved daughter--but listen to me; pray, listen! do not brave openly
this pitiless world--return to the ball-room--I'll join you there soon, I
promise you--but in the name of Heaven, do not compromise your fair fame!"

The poor child melted into tears, and I felt that she was staggering; I
supported her and helped her to a seat on a bench close by. I remained
standing before her, holding one of her hands. The darkness was intense
around us; I gazed into space, and I listened, in a state of vague stupor,
to the clear and regular murmur of the brook flowing under the spruce
trees, to the convulsive sobs that swelled the unhappy woman's bosom, and
to the odious sounds of revelry which the orchestra sent us at intervals
from afar. It was one of those moments that can never be forgotten.

She succeeded in mastering her grief at last, and seemed, after this
explosion, to recover all her firmness.

"Monsieur," she said, rising and withdrawing her hand, "have no fears
about my reputation. The world is accustomed to my follies. However, I
have taken care that the present one shall not be noticed. Besides, I
would not care if it was. You are the only man whose esteem I have ever
desired, and, unfortunately the only one also whose contempt I have
incurred--that is most cruel!--and yet something must tell you that I do
not deserve it."

"Madam!"