"Yes, I went out, Jules," she answered in a strained voice, though her
face was calm. "But ask me nothing more. Wait; have confidence;
without which you will lay up for yourself terrible remorse. Jules, my
Jules, trust is the virtue of love. I owe to you that I am at this
moment too troubled to answer you: but I am not a false woman; I love
you, and you know it."

"In the midst of all that can shake the faith of man and rouse his
jealousy, for I see I am not first in your heart, I am no longer thine
own self--well, Clemence, even so, I prefer to believe you, to believe
that voice, to believe those eyes. If you deceive me, you deserve--"

"Ten thousand deaths!" she cried, interrupting him.

"I have never hidden a thought from you, but you--"

"Hush!" she said, "our happiness depends upon our mutual silence."

"Ha! I _will_ know all!" he exclaimed, with sudden violence.

At that moment the cries of a woman were heard,--the yelping of a
shrill little voice came from the antechamber.

"I tell you I will go in!" it cried. "Yes, I shall go in; I will see
her! I shall see her!"

Jules and Clemence both ran to the salon as the door from the
antechamber was violently burst open. A young woman entered hastily,
followed by two servants, who said to their master:--