“O, Louis! let me rather.”
“Come to me, my dear, my love, my wife—there, sweet, my wife, this seal upon your lips!”
* * * * * * * *
In the grey of the dawn, cold and austere after tempest, the signorina Brambello hurried forth to procure an accommodating priest. He was easily found, easily bribed, easily persuaded into quick conclusions. The two were joined before the altar of San Maddalena, a dingy chapel in an obscure neighbourhood, and Molly and Fiorentina were the witnesses.
At the end, in the sombre porch, the pale bride turned upon the English girl.
“God, in His mercy, so give thy sin to mend itself—my sister!”
She hesitated an instant, then threw her arms about the other’s neck, kissed her on the mouth, and hanging her sweet head, went with her husband down the steps into the silent street. And his face also was bowed, as he walked feebly beside her.
CHAPTER XIII
Cartouche, released, at the end of a week, from his inaugural business in the Le Prieuré Prefecture, returned forthwith to Turin—and to the re-encountering a problem, whose difficulties, one had thought, he might have studied more profitably at a distance. But a characteristic precipitancy, in deed and word—as much acquired as born of self-reliance in him—compelled him from hesitating on the brink of things. When angels and devils were at contest in his interests, he was not going to miss the excitement, nor the chance of applauding, or perhaps damning, the victors.
But he had had a more wearing time of it than he would have cared to admit, even to himself. He was not apt at moral conundrums; and one had come to consume his peace confoundedly. He felt it always smouldering in his breast, ready to break out into flame at any moment.