“You have no curiosity,” said Modeste, interrupting, and looking at him.
“A wish—that I cannot expect—would suffice to keep me,” he replied.
“If that is all, you must stay to please me; I wish it,” said the colonel, going forward to meet Canalis, and leaving his daughter and La Briere together for a moment.
“Mademoiselle,” said the young man, raising his eyes to hers with the boldness of a man without hope, “I have an entreaty to make to you.”
“To me?”
“Let me carry away with me your forgiveness. My life can never be happy; it must be full of remorse for having lost my happiness—no doubt by my own fault; but, at least,—”
“Before we part forever,” said Modeste, interrupting a la Canalis, and speaking in a voice of some emotion, “I wish to ask you one thing; and though you once disguised yourself, I think you cannot be so base as to deceive me now.”
The taunt made him turn pale, and he cried out, “Oh, you are pitiless!”
“Will you be frank?”
“You have the right to ask me that degrading question,” he said, in a voice weakened by the violent palpitation of his heart.