“I had to take another journey on the coast of Tripoli to finish my labors. I was interested in my work, and anxious not to lose the result of so much effort, and I think I have succeeded—at least in—the opinion of my employers,” said the young man, with a ghastly smile.
“My dear Pierre, you come in time from the land of the sphinx,” interrupted Jeanne gravely, and glancing intently at Micheline. “There is here, I assure you, a difficult enigma to solve.”
“What is it?”
“That which is written in this heart,” she replied, lightly touching her companion’s breast.
“From childhood I have always read it as easily as a book,” said Pierre, with tremulous voice, turning toward the amazed Micheline.
Mademoiselle de Cernay tossed her head.
“Who knows? Perhaps her disposition has changed during your absence;” and nodding pleasantly, she went toward the house.
Pierre followed her for a moment with his eyes, then, turning toward his betrothed, said:
“Micheline, shall I tell you your secret? You no longer love me.”
The young girl started. The attack was direct. She must at once give an explanation. She had often thought of what she would say when Pierre came back to her. The day had arrived unexpectedly. And the answers she had prepared had fled. The truth appeared harsh and cold. She understood that the change in her was treachery, of which Pierre was the innocent victim; and feeling herself to blame, she waited tremblingly the explosion of this loyal heart so cruelly wounded. She stammered, in tremulous accents: