softly; she did not hear me. I thought that she had forgotten the letter
and had fallen asleep. After a quarter of an hour the servant came back
and said that the messenger wished to know if there was any answer.

"Certainly," she replied; "ask him to wait."

She read the letter again with the closest attention, and began to
write slowly; then she threw her reply into the fire, pushed away the
arm-chair with her foot, walked round the room a few times, and suddenly
stopped in front of me and looked at me in a cold, hard manner.

"Edmee," I cried, springing to me feet, "what is the matter, and how
does that letter which is worrying you so much concern myself?"

"What is that to you?" she replied.

"What is that to me?" I cried. "And what is the air I breathe to me? and
what is the blood that flows in my veins? Ask me that, if you like, but
do not ask how one of your words or one of your glances can concern me;
for you know very well that my life depends on them."

"Do not talk nonsense now, Bernard," she answered, returning to her
arm-chair in a distracted manner. "There is a time for everything."

"Edmee, Edmee! do not play with the sleeping lion, do not stir up the
fire which is smouldering in the ashes."

She shrugged her shoulders, and began to write with great rapidity. Her
face was flushed, and from time to time she passed her fingers through
the long hair which fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She was