She put her hands before her eyes.
“I do not think—I can,” she whispered.
The Marquis flashed into wild anger.
“Then you never loved him! You were toying with youth and gallantry, and his devotion was but like a brooch to your gown—and you vowed constancy because it sounded pretty, and you liked to be with him because he was a graceful cavalier—you did not love him for his noble soul as it walked before God!”
She cowered and trembled under his fierce rush of words.
“But you pretended you did, Mademoiselle, and now you shall pay the penalty of your pretence.”
She could not answer. He caught her wrist. Then his wrath died, and he was old, and broken, and pitiful again.
“Mademoiselle—my son used to kiss you?”
She stared forlornly.
“Think of him when he used to kiss you.”