"I do not know. I do not know. I cannot presume to judge. What you tell me is all so difficult, so sad—only I may say, perhaps, that I am glad you did not sacrifice yourself."
"You are glad? Then—" Adrian stammered, "then you will marry me?"
"Eh! but," la belle Gabrielle cried, and her voice shook, though whether with tears or with laughter she herself knew not, "you go so quick, so very quick!"
"You are mistaken—pardon me. I do not go quick, but slow, slow as the centuries, as æons, as innumerable and cumulative eternities. Have I not served for you, tres chère Madame, a good seven years?"
"So long as that?"
"Yes, as long as that. Ever since the day I first saw you. You had but recently come to Paris. Much has happened—for both of us—since that date. Yes, I can still describe to you the gown you wore, the manner in which your hair was dressed, can recall the subjects of our conversation, can repeat the words which you said."
Madame St. Leger gathered herself back in her gilded chair, her head bent. For a quite perceptible space of time she remained absolutely still. The inclination of her head and the shadow cast by the brim of her hat concealed her face. Adrian's heart thumped in his ears. His breath came short and thick. At last he could bear the suspense no longer. He leaned forward again.
"Madame, Madame," he called softly, urgently, "think of the seven years. Remember that I am young and that I am on fire, since I love as the young love. Do not prolong my trial. Give me my answer—yes or no—now, here, at once."
Thus adjured, Madame St. Leger raised her head, looked full at him with wide-open eyes, something profound, exalted, in a way desperate, in her expression. She shivered slightly, and holding out both her hands:
"I surrender," she said.