"Oh!" said Suzette, in the end, laying her cheek upon the cold iron of
the balcony, "I wish I had died at my father's home of pining for
something to love rather than to have loved thus truly, and have it
accounted my shame. If I were married to this man I could not be his
fonder wife; but because I am not he despises me. All day I have crawled
in the dust; I have made myself cheap in his eyes. If I were prouder he
might not love me more, but his respect would be something."
She rallied and took heart. Pride is the immortal part of woman. With a
brighter eye she entered the room. Her letter, blotted with tears, lay
crumpled and torn upon the floor at his bedside, and he, with his face
to the wall, was snoring sonorously.
"Ralph Flare," cried Suzette, "arise! that letter is the last olive
branch you shall ever see in my hand; _adieu_!"
He opened his eyes yawningly. Suzette, with trembling lips and nostrils,
clasped the door-knob. It shut behind her with a shock. Her feet were
quick upon the stairs; he pursued her like one suddenly gone mad, and
called her back with something between a moan and a howl.
"Do not go away, Suzette," he cried; "I only jested. I meant this
morning to search you out and beg you to come back. I would not lose you
for France--for the world.
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