Jacques de Boiscoran shook his head.
“That is easily said,” he replied. “I tried it; but I could not do it. Ten times I went to her, determined to say, ‘Let us part;’ and ten times, at the last moment, my courage failed me. She irritated me. I almost began to hate her; but I could not forget how much I had loved her, and how much she had risked for my sake. Then—why should I not confess it?—I was afraid of her.
“This inflexible character, which I had so much admired, terrified me; and I shuddered, seized with vague and sombre apprehensions, when I thought what she was capable of doing. I was thus in the utmost perplexity, when my mother spoke to me of a match which she had long hoped for. This might be the pretext which I had so far failed to find. At all events, I asked for time to consider; and, the first time I saw the countess again, I gathered all my courage, and said to her,—
“‘Do you know what has happened? My mother wants me to marry.’
“She turned as pale as death; and looking me fixedly in the eyes, as if wanting to read my innermost thoughts, she asked,—
“‘And you, what do you want?’
“‘I,’ I replied with a forced laugh,—‘I want nothing just now. But the thing will have to be done sooner or later. A man must have a home, affections which the world acknowledges’—
“‘And I,’ she broke in; ‘what am I to you?’
“‘You,’ I exclaimed, ‘you, Genevieve! I love you with all the strength of my heart. But we are separated by a gulf: you are married.’
“She was still looking at me fixedly.