Then, with a choking voice:

"I am worthy neither of your love nor your devotion, wretch that I
am! I made you lead a miserable existence, spend a joyless youth.
I imposed upon you every trial of poverty, whilst I-- And now I leave
you nothing but ruin and a dishonored name."

"Make haste, father," interrupted Mlle. Gilberte. It seemed as if he
could not make up his mind.

"It is horrible to abandon you thus. What a parting! Ah! death
would indeed be far preferable. What will you think of me? I am
very guilty, certainly, but not as you think. I have been betrayed,
and I must suffer for all. If at least you knew the whole truth.
But will you ever know it? We will never see each other again."

Desperately his wife clung to him.

"Do not speak thus," she said. "Wherever you may find an asylum,
I will join you. Death alone can separate us. What do I care what
you may have done, or what the world will say? I am your wife. Our
children will come with me. If necessary, we will emigrate to
America; we'll change our name; we will work."

The knocks on the outer door were becoming louder and louder; and M.
Desormeaux' voice could be heard, endeavoring to gain a few moments
more.

"Come," said Maxence, "you cannot hesitate any longer."