How could I ever have doubted Paul Kamarowsky's love? Was not the absolute faith he reposed in me—the blind unquestioning faith that in my folly I had often resented—was it not after all the highest homage that a noble heart could bestow? Henceforth the aim of my life should be to render myself worthy of his trust and love. In utter gratitude and devotion my heart went out to him who was about to place in my keeping the honor of his unsullied name, and the care of his motherless child. I clasped my hands and breathed a fervent prayer to Heaven, a prayer that I might deserve the happiness that was in store for me.
A slight sound startled me from my reverie. It was Kamarowsky who, having returned and not finding me in the drawing-room, had knocked at my bedroom door. Receiving no reply he entered. I left the balcony, and closing the window after me, stepped into the room.
Kamarowsky was standing in front of the dressing-table holding the black leather satchel in his hand.
“What is this?” he asked casually. “Is it yours?”
The pitiless light from the window struck me full in the face, and I felt that I was turning pale. “No—no—” I stammered. “It is not mine.”
“I thought not,” he said, turning it round and round. “I did not remember seeing it. We had better send it down to the bureau of the hotel.” And he stepped forward to touch the bell.
“No, no!” I cried, “it belongs to Elise.”
“Why does Elise leave her things in your room?” Then noticing my pallor and agitation he exclaimed: “Why, dearest? What is wrong with you? You look quite white.”
