“Risler is an honorable man,” she continued, “and when he learned from whom his wife received all her magnificent things—”
“What!” exclaimed Georges in dismay. “He knows?”
“All,” Claire replied, lowering her voice.
The wretched man turned pale, stammered feebly:
“Why, then—you?”
“Oh! I knew it all before Risler. Remember, that when I came home last night, I told you I had heard very cruel things down at Savigny, and that I would have given ten years of my life not to have taken that journey.”
“Claire!”
Moved by a mighty outburst of affection, he stepped toward his wife; but her face was so cold, so sad, so resolute, her despair was so plainly written in the stern indifference of her whole bearing, that he dared not take her in his arms as he longed to do, but simply murmured under his breath:
“Forgive!—forgive!”
“You must think me strangely calm,” said the brave woman; “but I shed all my tears yesterday. You may have thought that I was weeping over our ruin; you were mistaken. While one is young and strong as we are, such cowardly conduct is not permissible. We are armed against want and can fight it face to face. No, I was weeping for our departed happiness, for you, for the madness that led you to throw away your only, your true friend.”