“You must let me go,” he said. “Your saints will be enough to protect you now.”
She rose hurriedly, and stood beside him. There was something new and indescribable in her air and appearance—it might have been the mere maturity of self-love. Whatever her stress of mind during these three years, its effect had not been to warp and wither her physical beauty. Even the little angles of the past were rounded off. She was developed—a riper, more perilous Lamia.
“Hush!” she whispered, pointing to the altar, “the tabernacle!”
He gave a low little laugh.
“What!” he said, dropping his voice nevertheless, “is the presence more real to you than to me? Will you still pretend? We are alone, Nicette.”
Alone! the word was soft music to her.
“No,” she said, coming after him as he strode towards the door, “I will pretend to nothing—nothing, with you.”
She put out a hand and gently detained him.
“Oh!” she said, a very hunger in her voice and eyes, “to see you again—to see you again! Why are you here? You did not follow me? No one knew I was in the wood; and I was caught by the storm. My God, my God! to be near it all—in the midst—and the curse of heaven awake! It is folly, is it not, that talk of retribution—the folly of sinners and the opportunity of priests? Here was I alone, for all hell to torture; and, instead, you come upon me unawares!”
He stood dumfoundered that she could thus bare her soul to him. She had no shame, it seemed, but the sweet exalted shame of the seductress: her eyes dwelt upon him in ecstasy.