“How you misjudge me, Lola!” said he, sorrowfully. “I meant by this act to have repaired many an unconscious wrong, and to have vindicated an affection which the troubled years of life have never been able to efface. Amidst all the cares of great events, when moments are precious as days of ordinary existence, I have come to offer you this last reparation. Think well ere you reject it.”
“Not for an instant!” cried she, passionately. “Make weaker minds the tools of your subtle artifices, and leave me to follow my own career.”
“I will obey you,” said D'Esmonde, with an air of deep humility. “I ask but one favor. As this meeting is unknown to all, never speak of it to Midchekoff. My name need never pass your lips, nor shall my presence again offend you. Adieu forever!”
Whether some passing pang of remorse shot through her heart, or that a sudden sense of dread came across her, Lola stood unable to reply; and it was only as he moved away towards the door that she found strength to say, “Goodbye.”
“Let me touch that hand for the last time, Lola,” said he, advancing towards her.
“No, no,—leave me!” cried she, with a sick shudder, and as though his very approach suggested peril.
D'Esmonde bowed submissively, and passed out. With slow and measured steps he traversed the alleys of the garden; but once outside the walls, he hastened his pace. Descending the mountain with rapid strides, he gained the road where the carriage waited in less than half an hour.
“To the city!” said he; and, throwing himself back in his seat, drew down the blinds, while, with folded arms and closed eyes, he tasted of what habit enabled him at any moment to command,—a refreshing sleep.