"Let them go hang!" But Victor did not confide; not he, loyal friend!
And when he held his emptied glass on high, sighed, and dropped it on
the earthen floor, the Chevalier did not know that his comrade's heart
lay shattered with the glass. Gallant poet!
As madame threaded her way through the dim corridor, but one thought
occupied her mind. It echoed and re-echoed--"Or, rather, what you
pretend to be." What did D'Herouville mean by that? To what did the
Chevalier pretend? Her foot struck something. It was a book.
Absently she stooped and picked it up, carrying it to her room. "Or,
rather, what you pretend to be." If only she had heard the first part
of the sentence, or what had led to it! The Chevalier was gradually
becoming as much of a mystery to her as she was to him. There had been
a sea-change; he was no longer a fop; there was grey in his hair; he
was a man. In her room there was light from the sun. Carelessly she
glanced at the book. It was grey with dust, which she blew away.
Evidently it had lain some time in the corridor. She flapped the
covers. The title, dim and worn, smiled drolly up.
Pages:
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
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375
376
377
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386