Tumult was in her heart. His icy
hand closed over hers, which was scarce warmer; all the blood was in
her heart. Her arms ached with longing to wrap this poor form to her
breast. This was the supreme hour of her expiation.
"Henriot?" she called softly. "Henriot?" Thirty years of forgiveness
and love thrilled in that name.
Jehan stole away. All this was not for his ears. Only God had the
right to listen.
"Margot, are you still there? Henriot! I have not heard that name in
thirty years."
She knew that delusion held him in its grasp, that he saw her only in
fancy, else she must have flown.
"Can you forgive me, Margot? . . . I have no faith in women. . . . I
have your letter still; in a casket at Perigny. It is yellow with age,
and crumbles to the touch. Where did you go? After madame died I was
lonely. . . . All, all are phantoms!" Then his delusion took another
turn. He saw her no more. "Monsieur de Longueville, you lie when you
say that I received billets from madame. I know a well-trodden place
behind the Tuileries. Perhaps you will follow me? . . . Richelieu
dead? What, then, will become of France, Jehan? Has Monsieur le Comte
come in yet?"
There were no tears in her eyes.
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