“But he is penitent.”
“How do you know? He can appear to be anything. He is a vile dissembler.”
“He has confessed to me that he is sorry for his misdeeds. He wishes to tell you so, and there are other things he desires you to know.”
“I do not trust him. He would be as bad as ever if he were strong and well.”
“That he will never be. Will you see him now?”
Alaine arose. They had lodged for the night in one of the ordinaries of the town. They would soon be starting upon the second stage of their journey.
The girl’s face was drawn and white as she followed Madam van der Deen to another room. She trembled and was hot by turns. This meeting that she had dreaded for weeks, that she had put off, and that Trynje had helped her to defer, must now come about.
At Madam’s tap upon the door Adriaen opened it. The two women entered and the door closed behind them. Where the light from a window fell upon him François Dupont was propped up in his bed; he was waiting for them. He was so thin that his eyes seemed too large and deep set for so pale a face; his hands were like claws, and his lips were bloodless. At sight of his utter helplessness Alaine felt her first wave of pity, but she steeled herself against it.
He smiled as he saw her, and said, “At last, mademoiselle. I have long wanted to see you, and the fault of our not meeting is not mine. Will my good nurse give mademoiselle a chair?”
Adriaen understood, but Alaine refused to seat herself.