‘Never! never!’ cried Marie sobbing, as her clasp grew closer and closer round his neck. Had it been possible for Exili’s soul to have been then and there present, how it would have exulted in the assurance of its second victim!
‘Nay, this is weak, Marie. Let us bear the yoke which the world imposes with something like courage,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix, with a malignant expression strangely at variance with the silken accents of his tongue.
‘You may, Gaudin, if you choose,’ said the Marchioness, ‘but I cannot.’ And the tears were dried in her eyes as she spoke, as if by the fire that blazed in them. ‘If it tramples upon me, I turn: if it spurns me, I return loathing for loathing.’
‘And what good will that do you?’ asked Sainte-Croix, as a sneer came to his lips, but vanished almost in its birth. Step by step he was leading her on to his purpose. ‘See here,’ he continued, as he took a packet from his cloak; ‘sixteen months ago I explained to you the power of this paper’s contents; had you been then guided by me, you could have averted my long and dreary imprisonment.’
‘Gaudin!’
‘You have deceived me, Marie. I imagined—fool—idiot that I was!—that I was more to you than aught beside in the world; I now see how we stand towards each other. Farewell!’ he added, with studied unconcern; ‘Paris is wide, and its beauties at present require but little courting. I release you from all ties—our liaison is over.’
He advanced towards the window as he spoke. The Marchioness started forward, and caught him by the arm, exclaiming—
‘Oh! this is cruel, Sainte-Croix! Stop—but an instant. We have arrived at the brink of a fearful precipice—a dark gulf is yawning at our feet, whose depth we may not penetrate. We are doomed to fall into it, but it shall be together. Give me the packet.’
Sainte-Croix placed it in her fevered hand as she spoke. And then for some seconds not a word passed between them, and each remained gazing at the other as if they would have looked through each other’s eyes to discover what dark passions were rising in their minds.
‘Hark!’ exclaimed the Marchioness, first breaking the silence in a low hurried voice. ‘The servant is coming. You must leave me, Gaudin. Leave all to me,—in a few days we shall be once more in Paris.’