defiantly. "I will go to the ball, and I shall wear the dress which you put on your duchess, and I shall dance twice with M. de Marillac, as I have promised him to do, and if you are not satisfied you must mend your behaviour to me, which has been unkind and unmanly to a degree."
"Very well, Aimée," said Paul, with a pale face. "I am not a tyrant, but when a woman disobeys her husband, and seems disposed to trifle with his honour, she brings punishment on the man who abets her misconduct," and with these words he left the room.
Aimée was a little frightened at what she had done; but she was secretly glad at having stirred Paul to jealousy, and flattered herself that in the journey which she truly proposed making with him on the morrow, a reconciliation might ensue between them. She cried, and if Paul had come back at that moment, she would have flung her arms round his neck and prayed his forgiveness. But he did not return; so she set off to the ball in her naiad's dress, danced twice with M. de Marillac as she had promised him, and talked to him with a loud forced gaiety, whilst her heart fluttered terribly as she saw her husband coldly gazing at them both. What followed may be soon told. Social conventions in France oblige a man to maintain his honour at the sword's point. Paul d'Arlay glided up to M. de Marillac and beckoned him aside.
"Monsieur," he said calmly, "we are both men who can understand each other at a word. If you will name your seconds, we can settle our differences before day-break."
The officer understood and bowed. "I must only declare to you that madame is innocent," he added.
"I never doubted it," answered Paul, quietly.
So a few hours later, and just before dawn, Paul d'Arlay and the officer met in the Bois de Vincennes. The duel could not be a long one. M. de Marillac scarcely defended himself, and after a few passes Paul touched him on the chest. The seconds at sight of blood stopped the fight, and Paul, whose honour was conventionally satisfied by this scratch, returned to his house. The first thing that met him on his arrival was a telegram announcing that his child had suddenly died.
He sat down with a heavy sigh and reflected. Truth to say, it had not needed this announcement of his boy's death to prompt him to the fatal course he was now about to take; but his bereavement justified his resolution. Of what use or pleasure was his life to him now? He had pondered this question ever since he thought he had read in Aimée's eyes that she had ceased to love him, and the answer was this, that the sooner he was out of the world the better. He was growing old; his wife had many years of life before her; better leave her free to enjoy them since such was her bent. He was not moulded of the stuff to make domestic despots, and yet he loved his wife too well to bear her infidelity or discontent with resignation.
Coldly and tranquilly, without quaver or bravado, he unlocked a cupboard and drew out a case of pistols, chose one and loaded. But as he stood on that brink of eternity where so many other men have hesitated, what was it that made the sceptic pause a minute? It was grey morning, but there on his desk, beaming very white in the dim light, lay the ivory crucifix which had once hung in his wife's room, and which he had kept since the day when she had discarded it.
He took it up and looked wistfully at it, then for Aimée's sake he raised it to his lips. He had just done so, when it seemed to him that a door opened, and down the passage came, with quick steps and a panting breath, a footfall light as a child's flying for succour. It approached; now it was nearer.
"Who's there?" cried Paul, startled.
The door was not locked; it opened, and Aimée stood on the threshold, hugging her husband's new book to her breast, and looking at him with eyes brimming.
"I have read it to the last line, Paul," she cried, in a broken voice, and she flung herself at his feet. "Oh my darling, let us go back to our home. I do not think we have been either of us happy since that wretched day when I disobeyed you. But God is good, and you believe in him as I do; in every word of this noble book there is Christian faith; and see, my darling, you are crying!"
THE DILEMMA.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The capture and occupation of the residency lodge, as Sparrow's house was styled, in the night attack conducted by Falkland and recounted in our last number, gave a new aspect to the defence. It is true that the main garrison had to be
