“Yes, quite.”
“And you will not fail me?”
“No.”
He searched her quivering face, with its heavy eyelids, all wet and swollen, intently for a little; then softly touched one of the poor ears he had so cruelly ill-used.
“Ma pauvre petite!” he said pitifully: “ma pauvre petite!”
The sobs came faster and thicker; he drew her gently towards him, and whispered:
“Why would you rouse the devil in me? Did it hurt so much?”
She clung about his neck.
“Come,” he said: “let’s sit yonder. There’s no one in the house but Gaspare.” With lips like salve he touched the wounded flesh. “Chère amie—Fanchette—no, I’ll not loose you!”
Over his shoulder the white figure on the cross blazed in her opened eyes.