"I do not want it. All I ask is your love," replied Adéle. "Let me have the sweet privilege of waiting upon you, Arthur. I will be your servant, your slave. Do not, for heaven's sake, drive me from you."
Maltravers was ill at ease and could not disguise his agitation.
Two years before, as the poor girl had truly said, he had met her in a secluded village, where he was fishing. He had married the poor peasant girl and then basely deserted her.
Some letters he left behind revealed his true name, and at the first chance Adéle had come to him, to beg once more for that love for which she was pining.
It was impossible for him to acknowledge her claim or recognize her before his friends, and for a moment he did not know what to do.
His mind, however, was soon made up; he would threaten her, deny her story, and drive her from him.
"Rise," he exclaimed; "you are an impudent impostor. If you do not instantly quit this room I will have you arrested. It is the correctional tribunal which should deal with such creatures as you."
Adéle rose to her feet and clasped her head with her hands as if her throbbing brain would burst.
Could she believe the evidence of her senses?
"My God!" she cried. "He sends me away! Does he not know that I have a heart which will break? Are a man's vows traced upon the sand or written in water when he tells a woman he loves her?"