"But why—?"
"Because that you shall not give your honour to a woman such as I am. Mai vraiment, I love you. That is why you must take back the paper."
"But you must explain—"
"Mon Dieu! is it that I have not explained? There is time for nothing more. I have fear, mon ami; a kiss, and it is necessary that I go. It is good-bye."
"But you love me, you have said so. I cannot, I will not let you go."
"Listen to me, my friend," she said, her voice rising for the moment above the whisper in which she had cautiously spoken heretofore. "From the first I have deceived you, betrayed you, played upon your affection but to betray you afresh. And now I find that I love you. I am not that which you call good, but it is impossible that I injure you. Go back to your friends."
"Never! I love you. What matters now anything that you have said or done? And you love me. Ah dearest one, what can that mean but good?"
"Bien-aimé, what will you that I say?" she interrupted speaking rapidly, "I am what you Americans call 'a bad woman',—the sort of woman that you know nothing of. I was the woman who sixteen years ago stayed at the Inn at the Red Oak with François de Boisdhyver, the woman your mother called nurse, who cared for his little daughter. And now I have told you all. Will you know from now that I am a thousand times unworthy? Pour l'amour de Dieu, give it to me to do this one act of honour and of generosity."