“We cannot be entirely wise when we have staked our fate. Sailors are credulous: you know them. Women are like them when they embark... Three chances! Who can boast of so many, and expect one more! Will you take me to my hotel, Nevil?”
The fiction of her being free could not be sustained.
“Take you and leave you? I am absolutely at your command. But leave you? You are alone: and you have told me nothing.”
What was there to tell? The desperate act was apparent, and told all.
Renée’s dark eyelashes lifted on him, and dropped.
“Then things are as I left them in Normandy?” said he.
She replied: “Almost.”
He quivered at the solitary word; for his conscience was on edge. It ran the shrewdest irony through him, inexplicably. “Almost”: that is, “with this poor difference of one person, now finding herself worthless, subtracted from the list; no other; it should be little to them as it is little to you”: or, reversing it, the substance of the word became magnified and intensified by its humble slightness: “Things are the same, but for the jewel of the province, a lustre of France, lured hither to her eclipse”—meanings various, indistinguishable, thrilling and piercing sad as the half-tones humming round the note of a strung wire, which is a blunt single note to the common ear.
Beauchamp sprang to his feet and bent above her: “You have come to me, for the love of me, to give yourself to me, and for ever, for good, till death? Speak, my beloved Renée.”
Her eyes were raised to his: “You see me here. It is for you to speak.”