José believed himself to be in a dream.
"Ah! if you only knew, madame," he said, becoming more passionate with each word that he spoke, as if he had been gulping down some liqueur, "if you only knew how you have travelled with me everywhere, in thought, there, carried with me like a scapular—"
"My portrait?" said Marianne. "I remember it. I was very slender then, prettier, a young girl, in fact."
"No! no! not your portrait. I tore that up in a fit of frenzy."
"Tore it up?"
"Yes, as I thought that those eyes, those lips and that brow belonged to another."
Marianne's cheeks became pallid.
"But I have taken with me something better than that portrait: I preserved you, you were always present, and pretty, so pretty—as you are now, Marianne—Look at yourself! No one could be lovelier!"
"And why," she said slowly, speaking in a deep, endearing tone, "why did you not speak to me thus, of old?"
"Ah! of old!" said the duke angrily.