“He believes me—read—read. I feel that I am about to die—read, that his letter may be our torment here below, while we wait for that which God reserves for us.
“Now, I am ashamed of you—of myself; we have been base—base like the traitors we are.
“This infamous lie—never will I dare assert it before him—never will I allow him to believe that this child—Ah, I am in an abyss of despair!
“Be accursed! Depart, depart!
“Never has my sin appeared more terrible to me than since this execrable lie was made to impose upon his noble confidence in order to shield ourselves.
“May Heaven protect this unfortunate child.
“Under what horrible auspices will it be born, if it is born, for I feel now it must die before seeing the light—I can never survive the agony I suffer. Yet my husband is coming,—never will I lie to him. What shall I do?
“No, do not depart—my poor head wanders—at least—surely—you will not abandon me—no, no, do not depart—come—come—
“Emilie.”
Pog, the Count de Montreuil, as the sequel will show, had never been able, in discovering his wife’s guilt, to learn the name of the unhappy woman’s seducer. Nor did he know that Erebus was the child of this adulterous connection.