"Speak to me in English, if you please," she whispered. "Jeanne knows nothing, and she need not know. But you ask why I come: could I do less than come, dear friend?"
I had always marveled that she could be so mocking hard at times, and at other times—as now—so soft and gentle. And though I thought it cruel that I should have to fight my battle for the losing of her over again, I had not the heart to chide her.
"You could have done much less, dear lady," I said, taking her hands in mine; "much less, and still be blameless. You have done too much for me already. I would you had not done so much, I would to God I had been hanged before you went upon your knees to that—"
She freed one hand and laid a finger on my lip—nay, it was her palm, and if I took a dying man's fair leave and kissed it softly, I think she knew it not.
"Hush!" she commanded. "Is this a time to harbor bitter thoughts? I thought you might have other things to say to me, Monsieur John."
"There is no other thing that I may say."
"Not anything at all?"
"Naught but a parting hope for you. I hope you will be true and loyal to yourself, Margery mia."
"To myself? I do not understand."
"I think you do—I think you must."