“To that chaste woman who sought to kill me.”
The marquis turned pale with anger and said, grasping the back of a chair until he broke it, “If Madame du Gua has committed some dastardly wrong—”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked for the letter; not finding it she called to Francine.
“Where is that letter?” she asked.
“Monsieur Corentin took it.”
“Corentin! ah! I understand it all; he wrote the letter; he has deceived me with diabolical art—as he alone can deceive.”
With a piercing cry she flung herself on the sofa, tears rushing from her eyes. Doubt and confidence were equally dreadful now. The marquis knelt beside her and clasped her to his breast, saying, again and again, the only words he was able to utter:—
“Why do you weep, my darling? there is no harm done; your reproaches were all love; do not weep, I love you—I shall always love you.”
Suddenly he felt her press him with almost supernatural force. “Do you still love me?” she said, amid her sobs.
“Can you doubt it?” he replied in a tone that was almost melancholy.