"
"Mademoiselle, you do me grievous wrong--" I began.
"I do you no wrong," she answered hotly, then stopped, unwilling
haply to be drawn into contention with me. "Enfin, since you have
said what you came to say will you go?" And she pointed to the door.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle--" I began in a voice of earnest
intercession.
"Go!" she interrupted angrily, and for a second the violence of her
voice and gesture almost reminded me of the Vicomtesse. "I will
hear no more from you."
"Mademoiselle, you shall," I answered no whit less firmly.
"I will not listen to you. Talk if you will. You shall have the
walls for audience." And she moved towards the door, but I barred
her passage. I was courteous to the last degree; I bowed low
before her as I put myself in her way.
"It is all that was wanting - that you should offer me violence!"
she exclaimed.
"God forbid!" said I.
"Then let me pass."
"Aye, when you have heard me."
"I do not wish to hear you. Nothing that you may say can matter to
me. Oh, monsieur, if you have any instincts of gentility, if you
have any pretension to be accounted anything but a mauvais sujet, I
beg of you to respect my grief. You witnessed, yourself, the arrest
of my father. This is no season for such as scene as you are
creating."
"Pardon! It is in such a season as this that you need the comfort
and support that the man you love alone can give you."
"The man I love?" she echoed, and from flushed that they had been,
her cheeks went very pale.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252