"Yes." She was twisting her handkerchief.
It was this simple act which brightened his memory. He went over to
his table. Her gaze, full of trouble and shame, followed him. Yes,
there lay the letter; a film of dust covered it. He remembered.
"It was an answer," he said, smiling sadly. He did not quite
understand. "It was an answer to my . . ."
"Give it to me, Monsieur; do not read it!" she begged, one hand
pressing her heart, the other extended toward him appealingly.
"Not read it?" Her very agitation told him that there was something in
the letter worth reading. He calmly tore it open and read the biting
words, the scorn and contempt which she had penned that memorable day.
The letter added nothing to the bitterness of his cup, only he was
surprised at the quality of her wrath on that day. But what surprised
him more was when she snatched it from his hands, rushed to the fire,
and cast the letter into it. She watched it writhe and curl and crisp
and vanish. He saw nothing in this action but a noble regret that she
had caused him pain. Nevertheless, all was not clear to him.
Silence.
"Well, Madame?"
"I .
Pages:
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558