He smiled slowly. "Desert you? Impossible! You are married."
Her breath was caught by a sob, and her throat contracted spasmodically before she could make reply. "Spiritually, it is the same thing. I have loved—only you."
De Bernis did not speak now. Perhaps he was thinking.
"What have I done to turn you away? I have never wept before you, never complained to you, never showed jealousy of any one connected with you. What have I done?"
"Nothing, Victorine."
"Then why, François?"
Her calmness was disconcerting. He could have endured an outbreak very well, but this was beyond him. He only answered, awkwardly, "I do not know."
"But you are tired of me?"
There was a moment's silence. The woman waited. The man, with a physical effort, gathered himself together. At length, stepping a little back from her, and looking, not into her eyes, for that he could not do, but at her low, white forehead that was crowned with the dusky hair and the bright crescent, he spoke: "Victorine—Victorine—you are mistaken in this matter. Well as you believe that you know me, after the long months that you have had in which to study me, you can no more judge me or my motives than you can read the mind of monsieur your husband. You say that you have never shown jealousy to me. You were right not to do that, for there has never been need of it. You are probably the only woman for whom I shall ever care enough to regret having injured. You, I do regret. Believe it. It is true. But, madame, our connection is over. It has been over for me, as you surmise, for some weeks. I love no other woman. But there is something which I do value above all things, yes, above you. I am very frank, because it is necessary. My ambition, my desire for place, is what I live for. There is no room for you in that life of mine. You force me to say it. After to-night, Mme. de Coigny, after to-night, do you understand that I wish to meet you only as an acquaintance, as a woman of the world, of Paris, Versailles, the salons? I would have you quite understand this, now, since we are speaking together, alone."
Victorine heard him without interruption, her eyes fixed upon his finely featured face. When he ceased to speak, those eyes closed for an instant. She passed her hand across her forehead. Then she said, in a tired voice: "After to-night, François. Yes. I understand."