"Oh, I am ashamed of myself. I must note down these horrible things, that I may see them, then, in substance, under my eyes, in order to believe them possible.
"To reach, oh, heavens! so low a depth of abasement!
"Is it my fault, too? Grief depraves so much. Yes, it depraves, renders criminal; for, sometimes weighed down by despair, I exclaim, 'Since it was written in M. de Brévannes' destiny that he should be a murderer, why did not fate, instead of giving up Raphael to his blows, place my tormentor in his way?'"
Here the pages ended.
Iris had no doubt wished to leave M. de Brévannes to reflect, at his leisure, on this homicidal wish.
He exclaimed, as he shut the book suddenly,—
"Iris, have you read nothing of what is written here?"
The young girl appeared not to have heard these words, but looked steadfastly at him.
"Iris," he repeated, "you have not read these pages?"
"No, no," she said, starting from her reverie; "what is the book to me?"