217“Monsieur,” it began, “I cannot let you die without telling you that it was I who betrayed––”

He jumped to his feet. “Oh–the pythoness!” he breathed fervently.

“––who betrayed you,” the letter read. “That you know this, monsieur, that your last thought shall be a curse at me, such will be my punishment. It is a self inflicted one, because you need not have known what I have done. The telling of this to you is my scourge, but it is not penitence. Worse and more unbearable is my sorrow that the penitence will never come, that I can feel no remorse, no more than if some inevitable thing, like the fever, had taken you. I would always do again what I have just done; as pitiless as I must be for you, Fate is for me. Your life, monsieur, is but added to the hundreds already snuffed out in this country for France’s sake. Those hundreds are my countrymen, and you, if you lived till to-morrow, would make their offering useless. I have tried to save you, monsieur, but you would not permit. You would not return to your own country, and–there was no other way. But do not think there will come emissaries in your place. Do not believe that I would so send you to death needlessly. There will be no emissaries after you. Your Confederates shall know that Maximilian’s court martial executed you, and is it that your compatriotes will then desire to help Maximilian? Believe–only believe, monsieur–that it is a cruel duty not permitting that I shall listen to my heart. If you but knew, if you but knew–and you shall know. Monsieur Driscoll–oh, mon chevalier, it is that I love you. There, know then, dear heart cheri, the enormity of my sacrifice. Know the necessity of it. Know that I envy you, for you are going, and I must stay, all alone, without you. Mon bien aimé, without you, through all my long life!”

She had signed it simply, “Jacqueline.”

Again Driscoll was on his feet. He paced up and down the 218room. “There’s one thing,” he muttered, “and that is, there’s nothing between her and Maximilian, not when she’s keeping help from him.” And on he paced, his fists opening and clenching. Suddenly he came to a dead halt.

“By God,” he cried, “I’m not going to be shot, no sir, not now, not after–not after this letter!”

Here was neither boy nor warrior. It was very much in the way of a lover.

219CHAPTER XXVII
Berthe

“Il y a deux êtres en nous: l’acteur et le spectateur.”