She knew that money had been paid, and Cedric had written a grave and short note, bidding her leave that side of the question to his care, and to that of her father's lawyers.
Then, with dramatic unexpectedness, came the end.
She was told that all the necessary formalities had been complied with, and that her vows were now annulled. It was carefully explained to her that this did not include freedom to marry. The Church would sanction no union of hers.
Alex could have laughed.
She felt as though marriage had been spoken of, for the first time, to an old, old woman, who had never known love, and to whom passion and desire alike had long been as strangers. Why should that, which had never come to her eager, questing youth, be spoken of in connection with the strange, remote self which was all that was left of her now?
She reflected how transitory had been the relations into which she had entered, how little any intimacy of spirit had ever bound her to another human being.
Her first love—Marie-Angèle:
"I love you for your few caresses,
I love you for my many tears."
Where was Marie-Angèle now? Alex knew nothing of her. No doubt she had married, had borne children, and somewhere in her native Soissons was gay and prosperous still.
Alex dimly hoped so.