‘Marie!’ exclaimed Camille, as he started at the revelation. And he added almost directly, but in an altered tone, as though he would have been better pleased had his companion been any one else, ‘Mon Dieu! how came you here, for us to meet thus?’
‘You are annoyed, then, at meeting me,’ replied Marie; for her keen perception detected the difference of his expression. And, as she assumed a tearful and appealing look, she added, ‘I am used to this, Camille, and ought to have expected it. The time was when I should have been too proud to have even replied to you; but persecution and misery have crushed my spirit. My heart is quite—quite broken.’
She bowed down her head, and covered her face with her hands. She meant Camille to believe that she was weeping. He did so, and was touched at her distress. Taking one of her hands in his own, he said in kinder accents—
‘I was surprised at this sudden rencontre, Marie. I know not why, but I did not expect that we should ever meet again. It certainly was not my wish, although you will not give me credit for the cause.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I will tell you. You know I left Paris for Liége, my native place, some time ago. I have since then followed my profession there, and am about to be married. My intended lives at Mezières, whence I am now returning from a visit.’
‘And you ought to forget me,’ replied Marie: ‘it is right to do so.’ Then she added, ‘Do you remember the last evening we met, Camille?’
‘It would be difficult to forget it. I have the scar here on my arm from Monsieur de Sainte-Croix’s sword. Where is he—at Paris still?’
‘I know not,’ answered the Marchioness, with a violent effort to conceal her emotion; ‘it is long since we have met.’
‘He may be alive or dead, for aught I could say to the contrary,’ said Theria. ‘I never hear from Paris now.’