A word? No. He straightened in the saddle, and the
fumes of wine receded from his brain, leaving a temporary clearness.
Yes, he was right, a hundred times right. Victor would have done the
same for him, and he could do no less for Victor. And there was
something fine and lofty in the sacrifice to him who until now had
never sacrificed so much as an hour from his worldly pleasures. It
appealed to all that was good in him, leaving a wholesomeness in his
heart that was tonic and elevating.
And yet . . . How strongly her face appeared before him! If only he
could have stayed long enough to explain to her, to convince her of his
loyalty; ah, then would this exile be a summer's rustication. He
fumbled at his throat and drew forth a ruby-studded miniature. He
kissed it and hid it from sight. By proxy she had turned him aside in
contempt. Why? What had he done? . . . Did she think him guilty of
De Brissac's death? or, worse still, of conducting an intrigue with
Madame de Brissac, whom he had never seen?
"Ah, well, Victor offered his life for mine. I can do no less than
give him five years in exchange. And where is yesterday?" He had
passed along this very road yesterday.
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