“I desire no expression of gratitude,” he said loudly.
“Good citizen,” I repeated, “thou wouldst not rebuke our selfishness by denying us, thy most faithful debtors, the privilege claimed by even a minor actor in this escapade?”
“Of whom dost thou speak?”
“Of a turnkey at St Pélagie’s.”
“Mordi! I drenched him once for the colic—that is all. The fool fancied he had swallowed an eft that was devouring his entrails.”
He cried “Portez vous bien!” and a quick emotion, as of physical pain, flickered over his face like a breath of air over hot coals. Carinne was on her feet in a moment, had gone swiftly to him, and had taken his hand.
“Monsieur,” she said, in a wet voice, “it is true that honour, like sweet vines, may shoot from beds of corruption. God forbid that I pass judgment on that which influences the ways of men; but only—but only, monsieur, I hope you may live very long, and may take comfort from the thought of the insignificance of the subject of your so great sacrifice.”
She drooped her dear head. The other looked at her with an intense gaze.
“But, nevertheless,” he said, quietly, “it was the letter of M. le Comte, of my honoured father Epicurus, that moved me to the sacrifice. That is great, as you say. I never realised how great till this moment. Yet—ah, mademoiselle! I would not sanctify it out of the category of human passions by pretending that I was induced to it by any sentiment of self-renunciation. Thyself should not have persuaded me to spare thee—nor anything less, may be, than an appeal from my preceptor in the metaphysics of the senses. I take no shame to say so. I am not a traitor to my creed; and it would offend me to be called a puritan.”
He put the girl’s hand gently away from him.