“No.”
He stood for a moment or so, and looked out of the window at the blue sea which melted into the blue sky, at the blue sky which bent itself into the blue sea, at the white sails flecking the deep azure, at the waves hurrying in to break upon the sand.
“That”—he said at length, tremulously, and with pale lips—“that was false.”
“Was false!” she echoed.
“Yes,” hoarsely, “it was false. There was no such friend. It was a lie—they were meant only for myself.”
She uttered a low cry of anguish and dread.
“Ah, mon Dieu!” he said. “You could not know. I understood all, and had been silent. I was nothing—a jest—‘le Monsieur de la petite Dame,’ as they said,—only that. I swore that I would save you. When I bade you adieu that night, I thought it was my last farewell. There was no accident. Yes—there was one. I did not die, as I had intended. My hand was not steady enough. And since then——”
She rose up, crying out to him as she had done on that terrible night—
“Arthur! Arthur!”
He came closer to her.