He spoke quietly enough, but she recoiled as if he had struck her.

‘Your wife!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your wife, monsieur!’

A dark look passed over the Frenchman’s face. He bowed profoundly.

‘It is an honour which has been coveted by many, madame,’ he returned, ‘to be the wife of your humble serviteur; but I am proud to say it has been reserved for one who is truly worthy of it. Yes, Madeline, I will own it—at one time I thought the position too elevated for you; but when I saw you nobly rising to fame, I said to myself, “After all, I was wrong. She is a splendid creature; she will adorn our world of Art; at the right moment I will reveal the truth, and claim her”—and so, my dear Madeline, I claim you now!’

He smiled, he held forth his hand; but Madeline recoiled again.

‘Do not touch me,’ she cried wildly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Eh bien—I have no wish to touch you, chère amie—but if you play the tragedy queen in the park you will gather a crowd about you, and that would not be pleasant for you.

He spoke with quiet malignity; nevertheless Madeline knew that he spoke truly. She was utterly in his power, and for her own sake she dared not make a scene; whatever she said must be said quietly for fear of attracting attention. She cast a fearful glance around her, then, pale and trembling with disgust and shame, she turned again to the Frenchman.

‘This is another of your falsehoods. Why have you chosen to tell me it to-day?’

‘Mon Dieu! what a question! I do not choose to tell you a story. I came to claim my wife.’

‘It is false. I am not your wife.’

‘No? Then this little writing lies.’

As he spoke he drew forth a paper and waved it carelessly in the air.

‘Ah, my dear Madeline, there was once a time when you would joyfully have received the news I bring you to-day. You did not always scorn the thought of being madame my lady!’

‘You are right, monsieur,’ answered Madeline. ‘There was once a time when the news which you bring me today would have been welcome to me, but thank God that time has gone, and I am changed!’

‘Yes,’ he returned quietly, ‘you are changed, as you say; so also am I. At that period of my career to which you allude I was not perfect, and, pardon me for saying so, Madeline, neither were you. I confess with all humility that I told lies, and we both showed temper, but—nous avons changé tout cela! I come to-day to tell you the truth, and to offer you your rightful home.’

Again he moved as if to approach her. Again she shrank away.

‘It is not the truth,’ she returned vehemently; ‘I refuse to believe you! You told me the truth once, but you are lying to me to-day!’

Again his face darkened, but when he spoke his voice was as sweet as it had been before.

‘Your judgment is harsh, chérie, but I have without doubt deserved it—that being so, I bear it with patience. I say to you that I lied to you before; therefore I must not expect you to believe me now. Before I could not prove the truth of my statement, but that is all changed at last!’

Again he produced his slip of paper; this time he held it out before Madeline’s eyes. In a dazed, troubled way she looked at it. She saw at a glance that it was the certificate, real or forged, of the marriage between Auguste Belleisle and Madeline Hazel mere. Therefore she completely lost her self control, and did what, under the circumstances, it was most injudicious that she should do—she allowed the Frenchman to see that she was afraid.

‘I will not—I cannot—believe it,’ she cried. ‘If it is so, why did you tell me that wicked falsehood, when I did not know you well enough to doubt your word?’

‘I will tell you, dearest. When I induced you to fly with me from the school I was poor—miserably poor, and I believed I was eloping with a lady who would become possessed of a fortune when she was of age. Ah! forgive me, but I was wicked, corrupt! Then I said to myself, “She is a charming girl; she will become the victim of fortune-hunters; she evidently adores me, and I care for her; the fortune must be mine!” Afterwards you repented of your mad folly. I knew you did so too late—in spite of your wishes I married you. Shortly after our marriage you yourself informed me, chérie, that you were poor. I felt that I had been befooled, and I grew enraged. Still, as I could not easily rid myself of my wife, I resolved to make her useful. I did so. You fell into my plans until you discovered them; then you showed temper, and threatened to become dangerous. I wondered for a second time what I should do with you. I determined to try a bold stroke, and succeed or fail. I succeeded. I told you a lie, mon ange, and in your charming innocence you believed it to be the truth. You asked for no proofs, which was lucky for me, since I could produce none. You believed that y............