He could not help it—few men could have done so. His expression was almost fierce as he spoke his next words.
“And you will love him—yes, you will love him.”
“No,” she answered, with bitter pain. “I am not worthy.”
It was a year or more before the Villeforts were seen in Paris again, and Jenny enjoyed her wanderings with them wondrously. In fact, she was the leading member of the party. She took them where she chose,—to queer places, to ugly places, to impossible places, but never from first to last to any place where there were not, or at least had not been, Americans as absurdly erratic as themselves.
The winter before their return they were at Genoa, among other places; and it was at Genoa that one morning, on opening a drawer, Bertha came upon an oblong box, the sight of which made her start backward and put her hand to her beating side. M. Villefort approached her hurriedly. An instant later, however, he started also and shut the drawer.
“Come away,” he said, taking her hand gently. “Do not remain here.”
But he was pale, too, and his hand was unsteady. He led her to the window and made her sit down.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I should not have left them there.”
“You did not send them to your friend?” she faltered.