'But, I—'
'You, ma donna, my beautiful Flower o' the Lily, you will, I pray Heaven, forget me even as the young, living sapling forgets the stricken bough which the tempests have laid low.'
She shook her head.
'I will never forget you, Messire. If you go from me to-day I will never know another happy hour again.'
'May God bless you for saying this! But I have no fear that you will not be happy. Happiness comes as readily to your call as does a bird to its mate. You and happiness are one, ma donna. Where you are, all the joys of earth dwell and flourish.'
'Not when I am alone,' she said, the hot tears welling to her eyes, her voice shaken with sobs. 'And thoughts of you—lonely and desolate—will chase all joy from out my life.'
'But you must not think of me at all, ma donna,' he rejoined with infinite tenderness. 'And when you do, when a swift remembrance of the poor, rough soldier doth perchance disturb the serenity of your dreams, do not think of him as either lonely or desolate. I shall never again in life be lonely—never again be desolate. I am now rich beyond the dreams of men, rich with the boundless wealth of unforgettable memories.'
'You talk so readily of forgetting,' she said sadly. 'Will you find it so easy, Messire?'
'Look at me, ma donna, and read the answer to your question in mine eyes.'
She looked up at him, with that shy and demure glance which rendered her so adorable and so winning, and in his face she saw so much misery, such unspeakable sorrow that her heart was seized with a terrible ache. The sobs which were choking her could no longer be suppressed. She stuffed her tiny handkerchief into her mouth to stop herself from crying out aloud, and feeling giddy and faint, she sank on to a pile of cushions close by and buried her face in her hands, letting her tears flow freely at last, since she was not ashamed of the intensity of her grief.