In silence he gazed at her; his short-sighted eyes narrowed as he dwelt on every lineament of the beloved face.
“What is the need of this?” whispered Hélène. “Why should one suffer?”
“Love, we part to meet again—if it was forever you might weep——”
“Supposing it was forever?” the dreadful thought transfixed her; she drew herself away from his embrace, her face sharp and pale, “but, of course, I should die,” she added, with a little sigh of relief.
He could not trust himself to answer her; taking his hands from her shoulders he turned abruptly away across the plain dismal room.
The fire was burning low and the air was becoming cold; the outside night showed in the black squares in the uncurtained windows; now and then the red reflection of a passing torch or lantern glimmered across the shadowed room.
Patkul stared at the fine frost flowers hardening on the glass; he had his back to Hélène; she took off her hat which had fallen back on to her tangled hair, mechanically arranged her curls, and replaced the hat; then with stiff fingers she fastened the pelisse.
She was too young and simple to lament against destiny or to endeavor to alter her fate with violent hands; her court training and the society of Aurora von Königsmarck had not altered the direct outlook and conventional point of view of her young girl’s heart and mind.
She had been taken out of herself, inasmuch as she had come to him now spurred by the awful desolation, the unexplainable sense of disaster that had torn her soul; now she could do no more; she did not know how to deal with the moment, but stood stupidly arranging her hat and buttoning her pelisse in dumb wretchedness.
He thought wildly of taking her with him, of marrying her without delay or ceremony; his heart contracted as he imagined her always with him—as Marpha was with Peter—or Aurora with Augustus—his companion, his consolation, and his hope in all his adventures. Sweetening even ultimate defeat, if it must be, or glorifying ultimate victory into a happiness more than mortal.