She would have liked to
lie down and sleep . . . forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. He
was a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At present
he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. His
own agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His head
ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.
"What did he do to you?" he asked, scarce knowing what he said.
"He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur." She wiped her lips
again. "It is of no use. It will always be there."
"You are Madame de Brissac?"
"Yes." The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.
"And you loved Victor?"
Her head drooped. She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an
affirmative answer.
"It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place."
"Let us go," she said; "they are calling."
That was all.
Victor lay in the living-room of the fort. A shroud covered all but
his face. A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, lay
against his lips. Candles burned at his head and at his feet. There
was quiet in his breast, peace on his boyish face.
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