She sprang away from him.
“That I have fallen to this!” she cried—“To be asked to approve myself the instrument of that poor creature’s ruin! to applaud the wicked deed and crown the doer of it with my gratitude! Would you murder also for my sake—smear the feet you profess to worship with a fellow-creature’s blood? O, go from me, go from me, Monsieur! you are horrible in my sight. We take the burden of our sin—will atone for it as heaven wills. Better a hundred cruel witnesses than one advocate like you. She thought to save your soul, poor child, by winning it to justice done to hers. ‘One marriage brings another’—those were her pretty words—and so for your requital of her love. Love! O, I am fouled in having heard you—humbled myself before you. Go—say—do what you will, Monsieur. We refuse your help! Why will you for ever impose your hateful favours on me?”
He listened to her, standing quite still and ghastly pale. Then he bowed slightly, and walked to the door. Turning at it, he spoke,—
“I have made it my mission in life, Madame, to protect the shrine of my devotion from sacrilegious hands. No scorn, no misconstruction, no wounding hate will deter me from that purpose while I live. The idol of it shall owe me, at least, that debt of fidelity. If she hungers for the opportunity to retaliate, as debtors will, there is the precedent of Lazarus in heaven to reassure her. I will be sure to call to you for that drop of water, Madame.”
He opened the door, and was gone.
She stood quite motionless for minutes after he had left her; then suddenly flung herself, exhausted, into a chair. No grace, no pity towards him was in her heart. If they had been possible to its pure narrow code, his parting words, in which she read a scoff at religion, would have alienated them finally.
For hours she lay in wretched thought, half-hypnotised by misery. No tender sprig of hope could ever again be hers. Her uttermost fears were confirmed. He had confessed his guilt. The road stretched dark and endless now before her.
The house was deadly quiet. She was quite alone, and very desolate. Louis-Marie had gone into France, on business concerning his patrimony, and would not be back for some days. She had not even God to help her.
With dusk, as she still lay unstirring, came a quick step, which she recognised, in the hall outside. She caught herself up, making some effort towards composure, as it hurried towards the room in which she sat; and the next instant young Balmat entered.
He shut the door upon the servant who had announced him. He was so agitated, so breathless, that he could scarce stammer an apology for his freedom. He came towards her, hat in hand, at an eager run. His eyes were shining, his chest heaving in the prospect of some wonderful announcement.