I had a moment's weakness when she spoke. I was within an ace of
advancing and casting myself upon my knees like any Lenten penitent,
to sue forgiveness. But I set the inclination down betimes. Such
expedients would not avail me here.
"What I have to say, mademoiselle," I answered after a pause, "would
justify a saint descending into, hell; or, rather, to make my
metaphor more apt, would warrant a sinner's intrusion into heaven."
I spoke solemnly, yet not too solemnly; the least slur of a sardonic
humour was in my tones.
She moved her head upon the white column of her neck, and with the
gesture one of her brown curls became disordered. I could fancy
the upward tilt of her delicate nose, the scornful curve of her lip
as she answered shortly "Then say it quickly, monsieur."
And, being thus bidden, I said quickly "I love you, Roxalanne."
Her heel beat the shimmering parquet of the floor; she half turned
towards me, her cheek flushed, her lip tremulous with anger.
"Will you say what you have to say, monsieur?" she demanded in a
concentrated voice, "and having said it, will you go?"
"Mademoiselle, I have already said it," I answered, with a wistful
smile.
"Oh!" she gasped. Then suddenly facing round upon me, a world of
anger in her blue eyes - eyes that I had known dreamy, but which
were now very wide awake. "Was it to offer me this last insult you
forced your presence upon me? Was it to mock me with those words,
me - a woman, with no man about me to punish you? Shame, sir! Yet
it is no more than I might look for in you.
Pages:
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251