“I think I can, Antoine. You see, I need forgiveness so badly myself. I wouldn’t want to keep anyone else without it. Besides, Michael would have been bound to learn—what you told him—sooner or later.” She rose to her feet, pushing back the hair from her forehead rather wearily. “It’s better as it is—that he should know now. It—it would have been unbearable if it had come later—when I was his wife.”
Antoine stumbled to his feet. His beautiful face was marred with grief.
“I wish I were dead!”
The words broke from him like an exceeding bitter cry. To Magda they seemed to hold some terrible import.
“Not that, Antoine!” she answered in a frightened voice. “You’re not thinking—you’re not meaning——”
He shook his head, smiling faintly.
“No,” he said quietly. “The Davilofs have never been cowards. I shan’t take that way out. You need have no fears, Magda.” The sudden tension in her face relaxed. “But I shall not stay in England. England—without you—would be hell. A hell of memories.”
“What shall you do, then, Antoine? You won’t give up playing?”
He made a fierce gesture of distaste.
“I couldn’t play in public! Not now. Not for a time. I think I shall go to my mother. She always wants me, and she sees me very little.”