"Rosine," said he, "what is the matter with you?"

She did not answer.

It was one of those glorious, calm evenings in the month of June,
whose secret harmonies infuse such sweetness into the sunset. The air
was clear, the stillness perfect, so that far away in the park they
could hear the voices of some children, which added a kind of melody
to the sublimity of the scene.

"You do not answer me?" the Colonel said to his wife.

"My husband----" said the Countess, who broke off, started a little,
and with a blush stopped to ask him, "What am I to say when I speak of
M. Ferraud?"

"Call him your husband, my poor child," replied the Colonel, in a kind
voice. "Is he not the father of your children?"

"Well, then," she said, "if he should ask what I came here for, if he
finds out that I came here, alone, with a stranger, what am I to say
to him? Listen, monsieur," she went on, assuming a dignified attitude,
"decide my fate, I am resigned to anything--"

"My dear," said the Colonel, taking possession of his wife's hands, "I
have made up my mind to sacrifice myself entirely for your
happiness--"

"That is impossible!" she exclaimed, with a sudden spasmodic movement.
"Remember that you would have to renounce your identity, and in an