"He is gone!" she said piteously. "Victor is dead; he will not speak.
Poor boy, poor boy!"
They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick. Yet
they turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.
"Yes, my daughter, he is dead. God will deal kindly with him, brave
boy."
"Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved from
one face to another till they rested on madame. "He will sing no more;
he will not fly southward this winter, nor next. Ah, Madame, will you
forget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simply
your lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between you
and your lover's lips."
"It is true," she said brokenly. "You had a wicked heart, Monsieur.
You, you have brought about all this misery. You have wantonly cast a
shadow upon my life."
"Have I done that? Well, that is something . . . something."
"I forgive you."
"Eh? I am growing deaf!" He reeled toward the door, and the men made
way for him. "I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself against
the jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. .
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