"It is! It is, Louis!" she pleaded feverishly. "We didn't understand each other, that's all! It was my fault, my fault! You loved me passionately but I did not know it! I could not see it! And you made me only part of your home—never part of your life! I was never your friend—you were gentle with me, but you never took me into your life—you never really knew my heart, and with you I always felt alone. I loved you but"—she fought for breath and coherence—"but I was always afraid of you—you were so serious and severe! I wanted to laugh and have a good time! You never noticed it—you had your work, your ambitions, your legal friends and I—had nothing! Nothing!" she sobbed. "And I was so young—twenty! Hardly twenty! Oh, Louis, forgive me! Forgive me!"
Floriot half staggered to a chair and sank into it. The unexpectedness of the soul-wracking scene coming on top of the strain of his two weeks' vigil in the sick-room was almost too much for even his iron nerve. Jacqueline, huddled on the floor, was sobbing convulsively. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. At the sound she struggled to her feet and took a step toward him, gasping to control her heaving bosom. He waved a hand toward the door without raising his head.
"Louis!" she cried passionately, desperately, "you would not condemn the lowest criminal if there were any defense for him, and I am the mother of your boy! It is all my fault, but you could have helped me if you would! You swore to love, honor and protect me, and did you do it? You loved me but you never honored me! You did not think I was worthy to be the companion to you that a wife should be! You looked for companionship to your friends. I might as well have been your mistress! Did you protect me? You brought him to the house the first time? You said he was your friend and you encouraged me to be kind to him. You permitted him to be my escort wherever I wanted to go, because my pleasure would not then interfere with your work or your plans!"
She choked. Floriot did not stir.
"He grew to be everything to me that you should have been. He sympathized with me in everything! He anticipated every thought and desire! You would not even make an effort to please me if my request interfered with your work—always your work!"
"Life of pleasure!" she quoted bitterly. "Louis, I never loved him! You angered me and hurt me because you would not let me come close to your real life. And I—I—Louis, I was mad! But you could have saved me! A little attention—if I could have felt that I was anything more than a plaything—something to amuse you in the few minutes that you ever took for amusement—Louis.. you will never know how I fought with myself—the torture of those days—and when I came to you for help——!" The words died away in a sob. There was no sound from the husband but the labor of his breathing.
"Do you remember a few days before—before—I—the night I—left—I wanted you to go to Fontainebleau with me and you wouldn't? And I went with—him! That day in the park he—kissed my hands—and the lace of my dress—and said he would kill himself at my feet if I didn't love him——!" She stopped with a gasp and went on, bringing the words out in broken phrases.
"I made him take me home—I was running from him—from myself—to you! I found you in your study and begged you—to go out with me! I wanted to—show myself—that I loved you only! Do you remember what you said? 'I'm too busy. Run along—and get Lescelles to take you!'"
"Oh, Louis, Louis!" she cried, throwing herself at his feet, while the storm of weeping shook her again, "you could have saved me then!"
Still the bowed figure in the chair did not stir. He was so numbed that his consciousness seemed to be that of another—watching, listening and judging. He was the type of man whom Duty, once embraced, grips with hug like the Iron Maiden's, and even gains a monstrous pleasure as life itself or all that makes life worth while is slowly crushed out. Had she come a month before this scene would have left him unshaken, but now——!