“And—you still love me?” I asked, with trepidation, placing my arm tenderly around her slim waist, and drawing her towards me.
“Of course. But, mon cher, you have never doubted me, have you?”
“No,” I replied, after an awkward pause, gazing fondly into her eyes. “But now I have gained my promotion, will you become my wife?”
Her answer was affirmative, and we sealed our compact with a kiss.
Would that I could omit this last and terrible chapter of my biography. But no! The hideous story must be related to its bitter end, to serve as warning to others.
Through closed windows and drawn curtains was borne the solemn clang of a bell in a church tower in the Avenue de Villiers, recording the death of to-day and the birth of to-morrow. A simple canary in its gilded cage, mistaking for morning sunshine the soft glow of electricity, as it filtered through its shade of orange silk, chirped a matin song in shrill staccato. A tiny slippered foot nervously patted the sleek fur of the tiger rug beneath it, a strong arm girt a slender waist; and, between the solemn strokes of the church bell, and the cheery passages of the bird-song, quick, passionate kisses alone stirred the scented air.
The man spoke. It was René Delbet!
“I must go now, darling,” he said. “We have both braved too much already. He may return at any moment.”
“And if he did?” Valerie asked defiantly.