"Oh!" exclaimed the young woman, sinking on her knees, "how can one place confidence in others when one cannot place confidence in himself?"
Dixmer turned pale, as if all his blood had rushed back to his heart.
"Geneviève," said he, "I have done very wrong to cause you so much anguish of mind. I ought to have explained myself at once. Geneviève, we live in an epoch of self-sacrifice. I have devoted myself to the queen, our benefactress,—not only my arm, not only my head, but my happiness. Others will give her their lives; I do more than give her my life,—I risk my honor; and if that perishes, only one more tear will fall into the ocean of miseries which is preparing to swallow up France. But my honor runs no risk under the guardianship of such a woman as my Geneviève."
For the first time Dixmer had entirely revealed himself. Geneviève raised her head, and fixed her beautiful eyes, full of admiration, upon him; then slowly rose, and presented her forehead to him to kiss.
"You wish it?" said she.
Dixmer made a sign in the affirmative.
"Dictate, then," and she took up a pen.
"No; it is sufficient to use, not to abuse this worthy young man," said Dixmer; "and since he will be reconciled himself to us on receipt of a letter from Geneviève, this letter should be from Geneviève, and not from Monsieur Dixmer."
And Dixmer a second time kissed his wife's forehead, thanked her, and went out.
Then Geneviève tremblingly wrote,—