"Not as a pastime, not carelessly; rather with a definite purpose, to
bring you to your senses. You were becoming an insolent drunkard."
The chevalier stretched out a hand. "We have threshed that subject
well. We will not recall it."
"Very well." The marquis's anger was close to the surface. This was
his reward for what he understood to be a tremendous personal
sacrifice! He had come three thousand miles to make a restitution only
to receive covert curses for his pains! "But I beg of you not to
repeat that extravagant play-acting. This glass belongs to Monsieur de
Lauson, and it might cost you dear."
"Is your heart made of stone or of steel that you think you can undo
what you have done? Can I believe you? How am I to tell that you are
not doubling on the lie? Is not all this because you are afraid to die
without succession, the fear that men will laugh?"
"I am not afraid of anything," sharply; "not even of ridicule."
"Well, Monsieur le Marquis, neither am I. You have wasted your time."
"So I perceive," sourly. "A letter would have been more to the
purpose."
"It would indeed. It is the sight of you, Monsieur, that rouses fury
and unbelief. We ought never to meet again."
"I will go at once," making a movement to rise.
"Wait till I have done. You will do well to listen, as I swear to God
I shall never address a word to you again. Your death-bed shall be no
more to me than my heart has been to you. Ah, could I but find a way
to wring your heart as you have wrung mine! You have wasted your time.
I shall never resume my title, if indeed I have one; I shall never
return to France. Do as you please with my estates. There is an abyss
between us; you can never cross it, and I shall never make the attempt."
"Supposing I had a heart," quietly; "how would you go about to wring
it?"
"There are easier riddles, Monsieur. If you waked to the sense of what
it is to love, waked as a sleeping volcano wakes, and I knew the object
of this love, it is possible that I might find a way to wring your
heart. But I refuse to concern myself with such ridiculous
impossibilities."
It was the tone, not the words, that cut; but the marquis gave no sign.
He was tired physically and felt himself mentally incompetent to play
at repartee. Besides, he had already lost too much through his love of
this double-edged sword.
"Suppose it was belated paternal love, as well as the sense of justice,
that brings me into this desert?" The Chevalier never knew what it
cost the proud old man to utter these words.