“Do you think that I am afraid of Gilbert?” he asked.
She put both her hands on his folded arms. “No, Louis, not of him, nor of any man—but of dishonour.”
Something that was not the best part of him leapt into the young man’s eyes as he looked down at her with a sudden little smile. “The dishonour won’t be mine, Lucienne!”
She shrank away at that, and covered her face with her hands. “And he is your cousin—your friend,” she murmured.
“What of that? Does that give him a claim to dispose of both our lives? He is not your husband, Lucienne. What is it that you were affianced to him since you were a child—before you were old enough to have even a nominal choice? Is it such a crime, then, to have loved you, when I have known you as long as he, when I have seen you constantly for years—more often, perhaps, than he has done? Look at me and answer!” Gently but firmly he pulled away her hands.
“It may not be a crime,” she said. “I cannot tell . . . O Louis, what am I to say to you . . . for you know what I would give that it might come true—but it is . . . treachery.”
Dominated as he was by his passion, the young man slowly changed colour. “Treachery is a big word, and a disastrous,” he said after a moment. “Will it—will my wife call me traitor?”
“She will call herself so,” said the girl faintly.
“Listen, Lucienne,” said her lover, catching her hands. “Treachery be it, then! I do not care. I love you too much to consider honour. Of two things one must choose the best. I choose you, and my honour shall go.” He had her in his arms again, and kissed her hair with a dangerous quietness. The plaster Loves smiled at each other, for they had known that they would win, and the struggle only entertained them, since it would grace their victory the better.
The girl lifted a white face. “Louis, I conjure you . . . he trusts you, he trusts us. He has always trusted us, nobly, generously——”