"
"What are you going to do?" The Chevalier felt his heart swell with
agony.
"What am I going to do? Listen. You shall hear even if you can not
see." The vicomte entered the hut.
Madame was standing in a corner. . . . The Chevalier lived. If she
could but hold the vicomte at arm's length for a space!
"Well, Madame, have you no friendly welcome for one who loves you
fondly? I offered to make you my wife; but now! What was it that
Monsieur Shakspere says? . . . 'Sit you down, sweet, till I wring your
heart'? Was that it?"
All her courage returned at the sound of his voice. Her tongue spoke
not, but the hate in her eyes was a language he read well enough.
"Mine! . . . For a day, or a week, or for life! Has it not occurred
to you, sweet? You are mine. Here we are, alone together, you and I;
and I am a man in all things, and you are a beautiful woman." His
glance, critical and admiring, ran over her face and form. "You would
look better in silks. Well, you shall have them. You stood at the
door of a convent; why did you not enter? You love the world too well;
eh? . . . Like your mother.
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