She paused for a moment—her voice was trembling so. I could not look up—I dared not, lest my eyes be blinded.
“You will pardon me, M. de Fronsac, if I tell the story very badly,” she said, with a little, unsteady laugh. “But it moves me greatly, for her lover did not understand. He fancied she desired place and wealth for herself, when it was alone for him. He did not comprehend the greatness of her love. He was stricken with fever—and as, night after night, she listened to him in his delirium, she knew that it was her fault—that she had driven him mad—and her heart grew cold with fear that he might not get well. But he did get well—he came to her to say good-by—he closed his eyes to all she had intended, to all she let him see. He wrapped himself about with his pride, which he fancied had been injured, and would not look at her. What think you of such a man, M. de Fronsac?”
“I think him a fool!” said Fronsac savagely.
But I did not heed him. I was looking up, up into her eyes. And I read there the same story they had told me once before. There could be no mistaking!
“Claire!” I cried,—“Claire!”
And she, in her great love and strength, stooped and raised me to the seat beside her.
THE END
A CHILD OF THE NIGHT
Copyright, 1901, by Burton E. Stevenson