"But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping those wretched letters?"
He bent his face down close to hers.
"Shall I tell you, belle Hélène? It is this: You are beautiful and you have talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, you will have money—then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, with that precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You will marry me, ma chère, or I will make public these letters.' Do you see? Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty as much as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you will not venture to marry—because I have these letters?"
"You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly.
"Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care to be your husband after he had read that last letter—the fifth, you know?"
No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion.
Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she did not raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she had buried it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage.
"Now," he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to your house. We have had our little talk, have we not?"
The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door.
"Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness," said D'Arblet, raising his hat politely.