“I will do my best.”
“But that is not enough. My God! if I were to sacrifice mademoiselle’s dot without purpose.”
“The purpose is thy life.”
“That were nothing were she dishonoured.”
I put in a serene word—
“Yet it seems you would condemn her to poverty to save your skin?”
“That is different. I should have life; and life means many things—the power, possibly, to influence her fortunes; at least the wash of wine again in one’s dusty throat.”
“Michel,” I said, “I must applaud you for a capital rogue.”
He stared at me sombrely, muttered, “Je suis ce que je suis,” and sank back in his corner.
We were running between dark hedges at the time. Suddenly we came among farm-buildings, a thronging dilapidated group. The byres mouldered on their props; the flat stones of the roofs had flaked generations of rubbish upon the weedy ground beneath.