This ring I gave him when he parted from me      To bind¹ him to remember my good will;
     The more shame for him that he sends it to me.
 
     Shakespeare.
Marguerite had come, as she frequently did, to bring some provisions for the old man, and it was not without astonishment² that she perceived in the outer room, where she usually found Achard, a young and handsome man, who looked at her with gladdened eyes, and with a kindly³ smile. She made a sign to the servant to put down the basket in a corner of the room; he obeyed, and then went out to wait for his mistress in the park. When he had withdrawn⁴, she advanced towards Paul, saying,—
 
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I expected to find my old friend, Achard, here, and I came, to bring him something from my mother”—
 
Paul pointed⁵ to the inner room, to let her know that the person she was seeking was within, for he could not reply to her; he felt that the tone of his voice would betray the emotions he experienced. The young girl thanked him, with a bow, and went into the room to find Achard.
 
Paul followed her with his eyes—his hand pressed upon his heart. That virgin⁶ soul into which love had never penetrated⁷, now expanded with fraternal tenderness. Isolated⁸ as he had always been, having no friends but the rude children of the ocean, all that was soft or tender in his heart, he had turned towards God, and although in the eyes of rigid⁹ Christians¹⁰, his religion might not have appeared as strictly¹¹ orthodox, it is no less true, that the poetry which overflowed¹² in every word he uttered was nothing more than one vast and eternal prayer. It was not, therefore, astonishing, that this first feeling which penetrated his heart, although purely¹³ fraternal, was as extravagant¹⁴ and transporting as the emotions of love.
 
“Oh!” murmured he, “poor isolated being that I am! How shall I be able to restrain my feelings when she returns, and prevent myself from clasping her to my heart and saying to her: Marguerite! my sister, no woman has yet felt love for me; love me then with sisterly affection. Oh! mother! mother! by depriving me of your caresses¹⁵, you have also deprived me of those of this dear angel. May God restore to you in eternity¹⁶ that happiness which you have driven from yourself and others.”
 
“Farewell!” said Marguerite to the old man, opening the door, “farewell! I wished this evening to come myself, for I know not when I may see you again.”
 
And she went toward the outer door, pensive¹⁷, and with her eyes cast down, without seeing Paul, without remembering that a stranger was in that room. Paul remained gazing at her with outstretched arms as if to prevent her leaving the house, with palpitating heart and moistened eyes. At length, when he saw her placing her hand upon the door-latch, he cried aloud—
 
“Marguerite!”
 
She turned round amazed, but not being able to comprehend this strange familiarity, in one who was totally unknown to her, she half-opened the door.
 
“Marguerite!” reiterated¹⁸ Paul, advancing a step towards his sister, “Marguerite, do you not hear me call you?”
 
“It is true that my name is Marguerite, sir,” she replied, with dignity; “but I could not imagine that word was addressed to me by a person whom I have the honor of knowing.”
 
“But I know you!” exclaimed Paul, going nearer to her, and then closing the door he brought her back into the room. “I know that you are unhappy, that you have not one friendly heart into which you can pour your sorrows, not one arm from which you can ask support.”
 
“You forget the one which is on high,” replied Marguerite, raising her eyes and hand toward heaven.
 
“No, no, Marguerite, I do not forget, for it is He who sends me to offer you that which you most need; to tell you when all lips and all hearts are closed toward you, ‘I am your friend, devotedly¹⁹, eternally.’”
 
“Oh! sir!” replied Marguerite, “these are sacred and solemn words which you have uttered; words, unfortunately, to which it would be difficult for me to give credence²⁰ without proofs.”
 
“And should I give you one?” said Paul.
 
“Impossible!” murmured Marguerite.
 
“Irrefragable!” continued Paul.
 
“Oh! then!” exclaimed Marguerite, with an indescribable accent, in which doubt began to give place to hope—
 
“Well! and then”—
 
“Oh! then—but no, no!”
 
“Do you know this ring?” said Paul, showing her the one with the key that opened the bracelet²¹.
 
“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed Marguerite, “have mercy upon me! he is dead!”
 
“He lives.”
 
“Then he no longer loves me.”
 
“He loves you!”
 
“If he be living—if he still love me—oh! I shall go mad—what was it I was saying? If he be living—if he still love me, how comes it that this ring is in your possession?”
 
“He confided²² it to me as a token of recognition.”
 
“And have I confided this bracelet to any one?” cried Marguerite, pushing back the sleeve of her gown—“Look!”
 
“Yes, but you, Marguerite, you are not proscribed—dishonored, in the eyes of the whole world—thrown amongst a condemned²⁴ race!”
 
“Of what importance is that. Is he not innocent?”
 
“And then, he thought,” continued Paul, wishing to discover the extent of the devotedness²⁵ and love of his sister, “he thought that delicacy²⁶ required, banished²⁷ as he is for ever from society, that he should offer you, if not restore to you, the liberty of disposing of your hand.”
 
“When a woman has done for a man that which I have done for him,” replied Marguerite, “her only excuse is to love him eternally, and it is that I mean to............