A pretty, pretty romance! But was it practical?
His soul, at least, flamed out to it. It gave him a mad wild joy to think that circumstance, and by no contrivance of his own, had removed the one mortal bar to its attainment.
Whence, now, and wherefore, his return to Turin—to make himself secure of his transfigured idol—to confirm Louis-Marie, if necessary, in his renunciation of an untenable claim. For knowing the man, he could not but have his doubts of his resolution. So much of him was based on emotion—a treacherous foundation.
And, for the rest—his own title, by way of redemption, to that priesthood? Why, Molly, of course, was to be included in the transcendent scheme. She was to share his atonement, and be appointed a vestal to the altar of his love. He would pension her off for that purpose; he would—
O, “a mad world, my masters,” where love could not legalise itself without making a scapegoat of somebody!
And there was even another flaw—his promise to Yolande. But he had been obliged to forget all about that.
As he walked, in a sort of sombre self-complacency (as of a martyr about to testify) through the streets, his mind was busy over those first practical solutions of his problem which he was about to face. It would be necessary, he had decided, to inform his friend—restored, he hoped, by now to reason—of the impossible situation which his appointment had brought about, and to urge him to resolve its insuperable difficulties by instant flight. That must be the first step. And, afterwards—?
Alert, perspicacious by instinct, his eyes had become aware, as he moved on, of something oddly inquisitorial, something droll and furtive, in the glances of friends and acquaintances whom he met, whether directed at himself, or slyly interchanged. He affected to pass all by unconcerned, nodding brightly here and there without stop or comment; but he made mental notes, abstractedly stroking his sword-hilt, as if it were a pet terrier’s head. He felt, quietly, a little wicked. His theory of self-reforms, it would appear, halted yet something short of meekness and the second cheek to the smiter. At the corner of a street he ran plump upon Dr Bonito.
The adverb is figurative. The Doctor was always as shrewd an encounter as an edge of north wind. He cut into one’s meditations like a draught. On the present occasion, it seemed, he cut to get home into an adversary unprepared. His lean face kindled to the unexpectedness and opportuneness of the meeting.
“Hail, hail, M. le Préfet!” he croaked, in hoarse glee. “Here’s a magnetic conjunction! What man so much in my mind!—and, lo! I look up; and the man himself! Have you despatched both rogues and measures in your new Province? But doubtless you are returned betimes to assay the truthfulness of the great report. Well, be satisfied; it is true.”