16
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
This time he saw that he had made a mis-
take. If ever a man received a quiet intima-
tion to leave a room it was conveyed in that
glance from Mademoiselle de Laurebourg. She
ordered him to depart—he must obey.
' ' Excuse me, " he said, hastily. ' ' Some one is
calling, aud I must prevent any one from com-
ing in here V
He departed, shutting the door loudly behind
him. It needed this noise for Norbert to notice
that he and Diane were alone in the room to-
gether.
He cared little for this, it seemed.
" So," he said, " the Duc de Champdoce did
not care to take even the ordinary precaution of
ascertaining that there was no one to overhear
his insults. And he was so blind that he did
not realize tlpt in dishonoring you he was dis-
honoring himself."
"Alas!------"
" What madness is his! He is not content with
our present despair, but he wishes also to ruin
our Future. What can he hope? Does he
think that in this way be can force me to marry
this heiress whom he has selected—this Marie
de Puymandour—whom I hate without ever
having seen her!"
Diana started.    At last she knew the name
of the woman whom the duc had chosen as
j^her rival. The name was graven on her memory

/as if it were printed with red hot iron on her
¦very flesh.
f "Ah!" she murmured, between her parched
lips, " it is Mademoiselle Marie, then, who is
offered to you. Yes, it is she—or rather her
millions. If there was a richer woman in the
province, it would be she, no matter if she kept
a dairy."
" But my hand shall dry up to powder before
it takes hers.    You hear ine, Diane?"
She smiled sadly as she murmured :
"Poor Norbert!"
These two words were uttered in such a
melancholy tone that the young man's heart
sank.
"You are cruel!" he exclaimed. "What
have I ever done to merit this distrust? With
what oaths shall I swear never to become the
husband of any other woman but yourself?"
Mademoiselle did not answer, and believing
that he now understood the reason why she re-
fused to elope with him, he exclaimed :
"Is it because you doubt me that you will
not go with me?"
" No, it is not any distrust of you that deters
me."
" But what is it then? You say that you put
a just estimate on the opinion of this shallow
world. Is it not liberty and happiness which I
offer you?   What is it?"
She rose, and throwing her head back with
haughty pride, she said :
" It is my conscience!"
Norbert was silenced.
Up to this moment a marvelous hope sus-
tained him, and had caused him to put aside
the insult and the injury he had received; and
now all hope was slowly but surely slipping
away from him, hke water that one endeavors
to grasp with his fingers.
Meanwhile she continued.
"Yes; my conscience, whose voice I cannot
stifle—my conscience, which hitherto has en-
' abled me to hold my head high in spite of the
gossip which I knew was going on about me.
Now it cries out ' Stop! I can go no further.'
Heavy as may be my burthen, intolerable as
my duty has become—and in spite of a breaking
heart—I must draw back now ; I cannot go with
you."
A nervous spasm contracted her throat, but
she waited a moment and then continued, with
more firmness :
"Were I alone in the world, I would not
hesitate, perhaps; but I have ties, I have a
family whose honor is a sacred trust, of which
each member guards a portion and owes an ac-
count to the others."
" A family which sacrifices you to an elder
brother. "
"That may be—so much the more merit in
me if I do my duty. Where did you ever hear
that|virtue was easy?"
She had preached rebellion, and had set an
example of utter insubordination, but Norbert
was in no state of mind to perceive this contra-
diction.
Here she continued :
" My reason and my conscience dictate the
same course. For a young girl to set at defi-
ance social rules and conventionalities, the re-
suit must be fatal.    You would soon cease to
esteem her whom others despised."
" What opinion have you of me, then?"
" I believe you to be a man, my friend. Let
us suppose that I follow you to-day, and that
to-morrow you should hear that my father has
fought a duel on my account, and that he was
killed—what then?"
All these objections presented themselves so
forcibly to the young man that he could not
speak.
"Believe me, then," resumed Diane, "that
when I bid you depart, and alone, I give you
the best possible advice. Life in this vicinity,
and apart from your father, would, of course'
be intolerable. It would be, I know, far better
were I to bid you obey him—counsel you to
marry—this other—woman. But I cannot," and
Diane seemed to breathe with pain and diffi-
culty. " Go, my friend, you are but twenty,
and there is no sorrow that;time does not cure
You will forget me, I know, and I—cannot
hope you will."
"Forget you!"  cried Norbert.     "I forget
you?"
He grasped her arm.
" Can - you forget me?" be cried, fiercely.
He was so close to her that she felt his burn-
ing breath.
" I," she stammered—" I can."
Norbert drew back that he might better look
down into her eyes.
"And if I go," he asked, " what would become
of you?"
At this question Mademoiselle de Laurebourg
seemed to lose countenance. A sob escaped
from her breast, and her strength seemed to fail
her all at once.
I," she answered, in as sweet and resigned a
voice as if she had been a Christian martyr
about to enter the arena, " I know my fate. We
see each other now for the last time. I shall
return to Laurebourg—where all is known—or
will be in a few hours. I shall find my father
irritated and threatening—he will order me into
a carriage, and to-morrow I shall be in the con-
vent."
"Never! Never! That life would be to you
one slow agony—you have told me so over and
over again."
He rushed toward her, for she swayed to
and fro, and extended his hand for support.
"Yes," she answered, " it would be agony;
but it is a duty, also. And to preserve me from
that fate now would require a miracle—your
father's consent. In the convent I should have
only the past on which to look back. And
when the burthen grows too heavy—when I
can no longer bear it—I shall know what to do.
God will not judge me too severely."
As she spoke she had drawn the vial from
her bosom, and Norbert, as he caught a glimpse
of it, understood what she meant.
He tried to snatch it from her—she resisted.
But this contest seemed to have exhausted the
little strength remaining to Mademoiselle Diane.
Her beautiful eyes closed, her head fell back,
and she herself sank into Norbert's arms, while
he, with horror, asked himself if she were
dying. Dying she might have been, and yet
she murmured a few words in a distinct, though
low whisper.
She implored Norbert to restore to her that
precious vial, her only friend and liberator.
Then, with truly wonderful lucidity, she con-
trived to repeat to him all the directions given
by Dauman.
"Oh, my friend," she said, "give it to me.
I shall not suffer—in ten seconds all will be
over. A mere pinch in wine or coffee. No
one would ever suspect, for it leaves no trace."
At the thought that this woman whom he
loved loved him in return so tenderly and pas-
sionately that she would rather die than live
apart from him, Norbert felt his senses reel.
"Diane!" he repeated, as he leaned over her;
" Diane!"
But she continued, as if in delirium:
"To die after so many fair hopes! Ah!
Monsieur de Champdoce, you are pitiless, in-
deed. You have robbed me of my happiness;
you have insulted me; lowered me in the esti-
mation of the world; blackened my reputa-
tion, and now you want my life. Thanks,
sir. "                 ^
Norbert uttered a groan of agony—a cry of
anger and hatred that frightened even Dauman
in the corridor.
A fatal and execrable thought had just come
to him. He laid Diane gently from his'arms into
the President's armchair.
" No," he said, in a hoarse voice, "you will
not   kill  yourself,  and   I   shall   not   depart
either!"
He looked at her—she smiled faintly, ex-
tending her arms to him, and murmured his
name.
This was the last drop of the philter she had
mixed.
" You shall be mine," he murmured; "and
the poison which you intended for yourself
shall be the instrument of my vengoance and
the chastisement of sins."
And with the mechanical step of a som-
nambulist, he withdrew from the office.
Norbert's step still resounded in the corridor
when Dauman entered his office.
He was absolutely livid, and his teeth chat-
tered. This scene, of which he had not lost one
gesture, intonation, or expression, had agitated
bim to a terrible degree.
But he could not believe himself to be awake
when he saw Diane, whom he supposed to be
fainting, standing before the window with her
brow pressed against the glass, watching Nor-
bert as he went down the lane.
"What a woman!" he murmured. "My
God! what a woman she is!"
Norbert turned into the highway, and when
Diane could no longer see him, she turned
around. She was pale, certainly; but not ex-
traordinarily so. Her eyelids were red and
swollen, but her eyes flashed with the pride of
success.
"To-morrow, President," she said—" to-mor-
row I shall be the Duchesse de Champdoce."
He was so utterly overwhelmed that he—this
village orator, this man of many words—was
utterly speechless.
"At least," added Diane, "I should say, if
all is accomplished to-night."
Dauman felt a cold shiver creep along his
spine, she spoke in such a matter-of-course tone.
He summoned all his self-possession—for of
course it was necessary to look out for every-
thing—and he was already planning a founda-
tion for a future system of defense.
"I do not understand you," he said; "what
is it, mademoiselle, that you hope will be ac-
complished to-night?   Pray explain------"
She turned upon him a look that was so con-
temptuous and ironical, that his sentence ended
in an inarticulate murmur.
He recognized his error.
He thought he could play with this lady like a
cat with a mouse, but he was mistaken; it was
she who was playing with him. He had been
her dupe.
"There is no doubt of success, of course"
she said, coldly, " only—Norbert is awkward
sometimes."
With an affectation of ease, and with an air
of confidence that was almost incredible after
the emotion and repeated shocks she had under-
gone, she adjusted her disordered hair and ar-
ranged the folds of her dress, which had lost
something of their usual grace.
When this was accomplished to her satisfac-
tion, she turned from the mirror to the Presi-
dent.
" They must be alarmed at my long absence,"
she said; " I must return at once."
Then, in a tone which indicated, in spite of
her self-control, her mental anguish and the
horrible fear which were hers, she added :
"And this night!—how long it will be! Will
to-morrow ever be here? Farewell. When we
we meet again, President, all will be decided!"
All that bad taken place had come so rapidly
and unexpectedly that Dauman regarded it
much like a nightmare, and wondered if he
were asleep.
No; he was quite wide-awake.
Before Mademoiselle de Laurebourg left him,
she had intentionally made him miserable by
the doubt she expressed of Norbert's austerity.
This anxiety increased momentarily, and held
him in its iron grasp, and was indeed like the
nightmare—the grinning fiend that squats on
the breast, and whose imaginary weight is
found so stifling and oppressive.
Those four words, " Norbert is awkward
sometimes," were like a great stone oscillating
in his head and ready to crush him.
So great was his terror that he actually, for a
moment, thought of rushing to the Chateau de
Champdoce and shrieking out a warning, like
Cassandra; but reflection soon showed him that
this was to incur a certain danger.
He shrank, as it were, into his arm-chair, and
with his elbows on his desk and his head on
his harids, he tried to think. Perhaps at this mo-
ment all was accomplished.
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