"Dear Gabrielle," he murmured, "you are more beautiful than ever."
"You have intruded here to-day to tell me so?" she inquired, coldly.
"Take care! You burn and freeze at the same time. Such loveliness as yours may account for any rashness."
Alas! how ghastly a mockery had this same beauty been! The fairest woman of her time--her affections withered, her heart broken--deserted, friendless, desolate. At thought of it Gabrielle smiled, and the abbé considered himself encouraged.
"Gabrielle," he said, taking her unwilling hand, "in what I am about to say you must not deem me harsh. It is sometimes for the best to speak quite openly. I am a very forgiving man, as you shall have cause to know. You flouted, scorned, insulted me, and yet, though you deliberately chose my hate, I have nothing but deep love for you."
Again! The marquise wondered in a hazy way what could be the motive for this comedy.
"Love," she observed, reflecting, quite unruffled. "A strange form of love, is it not, which injures the object that is adored? Wherein lies the difference betwixt such love and the hate you promised?"
"An ardent, hot-headed man may be goaded by desperation to acts that he afterwards deplores in sackcloth and in ashes."
"An odd form of love that kills and crushes!"
"Hear me out quietly, and you will be convinced that I have striven in vain to hate you--that my carefully barbed darts have fallen blunted. Your position here is desperate. It is, believe me; and yet, though you are walled about by triple barriers, against which it would be idle to buffet, yet there is a loophole by which you may escape."