"And you will?"
"On one condition."
"That is—"
"You renounce forever all thoughts of Camillia Moraquitos; and that in the hour when, through my aid, you are elevated to name and fortune, you will make me your wife."
"You—my wife!" exclaimed Paul, thunderstruck by the words of the Frenchwoman.
"Yes. Is there anything so monstrous in the proposition? I am a few years older than you are, it is true. I have not the Spanish beauty of Camillia, but flattering tongues have told me that I am not destitute of the power to charm—I am no love-sick girl, but an ambitious woman, with a brain to scheme and plot a glorious future—I ask no love from you, but a share in the future to which I can elevate you. Do you refuse my offer?"
"I do," replied Paul. "Camillia Moraquitos may cast my image from her heart—may join with the rest and think me guilty; but, to the last, she, and she alone, will possess my love. Through the deepest abyss of shame and degradation I will be true to the guiding star of my life. Keep your secret, Mademoiselle Corsi; it can never be mine at the price which you propose."
"Fool!" cried the Frenchwoman, "you have refused rank, name, station, and wealth—nay, more than these, revenge! Be it so; abide by your choice. Perish in ignorance of the mighty secret which I have kept for thirteen patient years, and which will be a fortune to me if not to you. Rot in a jail; die in a transport ship; drag out your life in a penal settlement; Pauline Corsi has spoken for the first and last time."
She walked to the door of the apartment, and, opening it, admitted the officer.
"You see," she said, "there has been no attempt at escape." Without one glance at Paul, she descended the staircase, and returned to the chamber in which she had left heart-broken Camillia.