Yet all day, since he had eaten the sacred bread,
there had been ringing in his ears the words:
"Holy bread, I take thee;
If I die suddenly,
Serve me as a sacrament."
It came home to him, at the instant, what a toss-up it all was. What was
he doing? No matter: it was a game, in which nothing was sure--nothing
save this girl. She would, he knew, with the abandon of an absorbing
passion, throw all things away for him.
Such as Madame Chalice--ah, she was a part of this brave fantasy, this
dream of empire, this inspiring play! But Elise Malboir was life itself,
absolute, true, abiding. His nature swam gloriously in his daring
exploit; he believed in it, he sank himself in it with a joyous
recklessness; it was his victory or his doom. But it was a shake of the
dice--had Fate loaded them against him?
He looked up the hill towards the Manor. Life was there in its essence;
beauty, talent, the genius of the dreamer, like his own. But it was not
for him; dauphin or fool, it was not for him! Madame Chalice was his
friendly inquisitor, not his enemy; she endured him for some talent he
had shown, for the apparent sincerity of his love for the cause; but that
was all.
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