“I deserve these insults,” she said. “I wish you really thought me that despicable creature and still loved me; then, indeed, I could no longer doubt you. I believed in you when you were deceiving me, and you will not believe me now when I am true. Let us make an end of this, monsieur,” she said, frowning, but turning pale as death,—“adieu!”
She rushed towards the dining-room with a movement of despair.
“Marie, my life is yours,” said the young marquis in her ear.
She stopped short and looked at him.
“No, no,” she said, “I will be generous. Farewell. In coming with you here I did not think of my past nor of your future—I was beside myself.”
“You cannot mean that you will leave me now when I offer you my life?”
“You offer it in a moment of passion—of desire.”
“I offer it without regret, and forever,” he replied.
She returned to the room they had left. Hiding his emotions the marquis continued the conversation.
“That fat priest whose name you asked is the Abbe Gudin, a Jesuit, obstinate enough—perhaps I ought to say devoted enough,—to remain in France in spite of the decree of 1793, which banished his order. He is the firebrand of the war in these regions and a propagandist of the religious association called the Sacre-Coeur. Trained to use religion as an instrument, he persuades his followers that if they are killed they will be brought to life again, and he knows how to rouse their fanaticism by shrewd sermons. You see, it is necessary to work upon every man’s selfish interests to attain a great end. That is the secret of all political success.”