"What," she asked, still with her eyes fixed on him, "is that?"
"It would be best," he continued, "that, when I am gone, you should endeavour to make your way to England--to my mother. I shall write to her at once telling her that I am married, that my future necessitates my going to Louisiana, and that, out of her love for me, her last remaining child--for my brother is dead--she will receive you as her daughter. And she will do it, I know; she will greet you warmly as my wife. Only," and now his voice sank very low, was very gentle, as he continued, "one thing I must ask. It is that you do not undeceive her about--the--condition we stand in to one another--that, for her sake--she is old, and I am very dear to her--you will let her suppose--that--there is love--some love, at least--between us. If you will so far consent as to grant me this, it is all--the only demand--I will ever make of you."
He lifted his eyes towards where she sat, not having dared to glance at her while he made his request, but they did not meet hers in return. Unseen by him, she had raised her hood as a screen to the side of her face which was nearest to the logs; that, and her white hand, now hid her features from him. He could not see aught but that hand. Yet she had to speak, to make some answer to his request, and, a moment later, she said from behind her hand in a voice that sounded strangely changed to him:
"As you bid me I will do. All that you desire shall be carried out."
Then, for a moment, no further word was said by either. Presently he spoke again. "Desparre is paid what I owe him--what I lost at play. It will reach him by a safe hand at about the same time he learns that you are--my wife, not his. And I owe no money now in Paris. All is paid; during the past two days I have settled my affairs. As for these apartments, when you desire to set out, do what you will with all that they contain, excepting only those," and he pointed to the pictures of the country house, the horse, and his mother. "Those I should not desire to part with. I will take them with me to a friend. Now, I will summon the concierge; she has orders to attend to all your wants."
She rose as he spoke and turned towards him, and he saw that there was no colour left in her face; that, in truth, she was deathly pale. Her eyes, too, he thought were dim--perhaps, from some feeling of regard or gratitude which might have been awakened in her--and as she spoke her voice trembled.
"Is this then," she asked, "our parting? Our last farewell?"
"Nay. Nay," he said, "not now. Though it will be very soon. But I shall not leave Paris yet. Some trouble might arise; your uncle may endeavour to regain possession of you--though that he cannot do, since you are a married woman and have your lines. I shall stay near you for some days; I shall even be in this house should you require me. Have no fear. You will be quite safe. And, when I am assured that all is well with you, we will part; but not before."
He went towards the hall to ring for the woman, but, ere he could cross to where it was, she stopped him with a motion of her hand.
"Stay," she said, "stay. Let me speak now. Monsieur--my husband--I have heard every word that has fallen from your lips. Monsieur, I think you are the noblest man to whom ever woman plighted her troth--a troth, alas! that, as she gave it, she had no thought of carrying out. Oh!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes, "God forgive me for having accepted this man's sacrifice. God forgive me."