Suddenly she checked herself and gave a little artificial titter. She was not transfigured, but debased. A jealous scepticism was revealed in every line of her features.
“And what is death to M. Gardel?” she said ironically.
“It is an interruption, madame.”
She burst forth again excitedly—
“But Danton saw further than thee, thou fool, who, like a crab, lookest not whither thou art going, and wilt run upon a blind wall while thine eyes devour the landscape sidelong. I will not have it. I do not desire any continuance. My faith is the faith of eyes and ears and lips. Man’s necessities die with him; and, living, mine are for thy strong arm, François, and for thy fruitful service. My God! what we pass through! And then for a hereafter of horrible retrospection! No, no. It is infamous to suggest, foolish to insist on it.”
“But, for all that, I do,” said Gardel, steadily.
He took her outburst quite coolly—answered her with gaiety even.
I cried “Malepeste!” under my breath. And, indeed, my amazement was justified. For who would have dreamed that this little colourless draggle-tail had one sentiment in her that amounted to a conviction? Madame Placide an atheist! And what was there of dark and secret in her past history that drove her to this desire of extinction?
At Gardel’s answer she fell back in her chair with defiant eyes and again that little artificial laugh. In the noisy talk of the room we four sat and spoke apart.
“Malappris!” she said. “You shall justify yourself of that boldness. Come back to me, if you go first, and I will believe.”