“Why do you say a cruel responsibility? You used to be so passionately fond of Piotr. Don’t you care for him any more?”
A flush of mortification and misery rose to Basil’s face. He had not seen the impasse in which he had engaged himself, and for a few seconds he could not think what to say.
Surprised at his silence, Marguerite made a slight motion and glanced at him interrogatively, but what she saw made her instantly resume her former position. “Good Heavens!” thought she, “what is it?”
“Marguerite,” Basil painfully recommenced, “the last few years have not been happy ones to me. Mind you, I blame no one but myself. I alone should have been called to account for—the lack of happiness I found in a union I had sought, and desired at the time above all other things.”
Again he paused, wiped the moisture from his forehead mechanically, and this time Marguerite did not make use of the pause; but a faint smile of incredulity, which it would have done him good to see had he been in a state to notice it, flitted at the corners of her mouth.
“Be this as it may, the fact remains that I have been wretchedly unhappy, that I am still so now, by contrecoup, perhaps. Much has happened that I must endeavor to forget—not for my own welfare alone, mind you—and this I cannot attempt if Piotr is with me. I mean that for that reason and some others I am forced to exile myself anew. It is useless to enter into particulars. Later you will perhaps understand why; now I cannot tell you. Will you trust me without explanation?”
“Yes,” she said, unhesitatingly.
He gave a deep sigh of relief and thankfulness. “You are very—very much the Chevalier your father calls you,” he said, humbly, “and I thank you with all my heart.”
“But,” she interrupted, with some indignation, “you have not answered my question. Have you a grudge against poor little Piotr? Yes or no.”
“A grudge?” Basil repeated after her—“a grudge against Piotr?”