She shook her head, drooping her eyes to him. Patently she had elected to stake her chances on white candour as the better policy with this Joseph.
“Well,” said he, “it is as it should be. And you are equally convinced I am indifferent to you?”
But at that she came forward—so close to him, indeed, as to make her every word an invitation.
“Now,” thought Ned, inured to such appeals, “she will throw her arms round my neck in a minute.”
But he did Théroigne indifferent justice.
“You think yourself so,” she murmured. “It will be only a little while. Already, in the prospect of freedom, I begin to renew myself since yesterday. What if my soul is torn and crippled! The blood will glow in my veins no less hotly than before—a fire to melt even this cold iron of thy resolve. Oh, look on me—look on me! I can feel all power and beauty moving within me like a child. That I should be scorned of clowns! And yet the chance gives me to you, monsieur, if you but put out your hand. It is not love. That thou hast not, nor I; nor is the power longer to me or the gift to you. But I am grateful, for that thou hast helped me under sore insult. Ah! it avails nothing to plead accident—to say, ‘It was the outrage I avenged for manliness’, not the woman’s, sake.’ What, then? Thou hast wrought the bond of sympathy, and thou canst never forge it apart. Perhaps, even, didst thou strike hard, thou mightst some day hit out the spark of love. Take me, and thou wilt desire to: I swear it. Do I not breathe and live? Am I not one to vindicate in prosperity the choice of her protector? Thou hast a nobility of manliness that is higher than any rank. But, if in thine own country thou art great, thou shalt be greater through me. I will minister to thy ambition no less than to thy senses. I will——”
She paused, breathing quickly, and watchful of the steady immobility of his face.
“Monsieur,” she whispered, most movingly, “if you see in me now only a lost unhappy girl, who in her misery would seem to seek the confirmation of her dishonour, believe—oh, monsieur, believe that it is only to escape the worser degradation that threatens her through the relentless persecution she suffers on account of her trust in one that was monsieur’s friend.”
“No friend of mine,” muttered Ned, and stopped. He must collect his thoughts—endeavour to answer this séductrice according to her guile. Instinctively he stepped back a pace, as though to elude the enchantment of a very low sweet voice.
“Listen to me,” he said distinctly. “Mademoiselle Lambertine, I pity you profoundly; and, if I have anything more to say, it is only, upon my honour, to marvel that one of such intelligence as yourself should ever have submitted her honour to the handling of so exceedingly meretricious a gentleman as M. de St Denys. You see I repay your confidence with plain-speaking. For the rest I can assure you it is not my ambition to be beholden for whatever the future may have in store for me to a——”