CHAPTER VIII
THE PORTRAIT
Into the mind of every thoughtful man must come at times with
bitterness the reflection of how utterly we are at the mercy of
Fate, the victims of her every whim and caprice. We may set out
with the loftiest, the sternest resolutions to steer our lives
along a well-considered course, yet the slightest of fortuitous
circumstances will suffice to force us into a direction that we had
no thought of taking.
Now, had it pleased Monsieur de Marsac to have come to Lavedan at
any reasonable hour of the day, I should have been already upon
the road to Paris, intent to own defeat and pay my wager. A night
of thought, besides strengthening my determination to follow such a
course, had brought the reflection that I might thereafter return
to Roxalanne, a poor man, it is true, but one at least whose
intentions might not be misconstrued.
And so, when at last I sank into sleep, my mind was happier than
it had been for many days. Of Roxalanne's love I was assured, and
it seemed that I might win her, after all, once I removed the
barrier of shame that now deterred me. It may be that those
thoughts kept me awake until a late hour, and that to this I owe
it that when on the morrow I awakened the morning was well advanced.
The sun was flooding my chamber, and at my bedside stood Anatole.
"What's o'clock?" I inquired, sitting bolt upright.
"Past ten," said he, with stern disapproval.
"And you have let me sleep?" I cried.
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