She uttered a little cry—moved a step forward—clasped her hands to her bosom.
“Understand clearly, Madam,” he said: “I loved you, and would have yielded you to my friend. I had no alternative, indeed; but that is not to justify your slander of a renunciation, which was at least as holy, according to its lights, as yours. I did not urge your husband to that wickedness. If I hinted to you of its possibility, it was to open your eyes to the truth—to save my dream from a last contamination—to confide it to the shrine the most meet, and the most entitled, to hold it perfect for my adoration. There was no selfishness in that sacrifice. Though it closed the gates of Paradise upon me I was content, so long as the vile thing was shut out with me. I could have heard the singing of your loves within, without a bitter thought. But that you cannot understand. No virtue, in your narrow standard, can exist in worldliness. It must be all one or all the other—vice or sanctity.”
She was pale and trembling. She made a little involuntary gesture of her hands, half pleading half deprecating, towards him. He was cold as steel.
“As to this royal crochet of our union,” he said quietly—“it turns upon some fancied policy of State, to which I am no partner. I am as innocent of its instigation as of its methods or mistakes. It hinted, a moment ago, that you might be kind to me. I was as incredulous then, as I am convinced now that no tolerance towards sin is possible to your nature. I have worshipped at an exclusive altar, and my faith is construed into a sacrilege. You are insensible, Madam, to the exaltations of a great passion. I do not plead to you: I reject you. Even the weakness of my friend—for he is weak—raises him in my eyes above your cold, methodic virtue. I do not think you are worthy of him.”
She bowed her head, weeping.
“I know it,” she whispered.
And at that he was disarmed. He stood in great agitation a moment; then burst out suddenly:—
“Madam, Madam, if it is any consolation to you to know, such passion brings a self-redemption. I am not, cannot be the man I was—never again. Spare me that gentle association with yourself—your memory—I’ll persuade the King—Madam, it shall all come right—it—”
His voice broke; he hesitated a minute, struggling with his emotions, then hurriedly left the room.
And Yolande of the white hands hid her face in them, and for long remained shaken with sobs.