She made an effort to pass him, but he arrested her.
“You will not leave me like this, Mademoiselle. He is not so changed—I wanted to prepare you, that is all—his mother thought there was very little difference.”
“Ah, his mother,” murmured Clémence. “I was to be his wife.”
“You will be. I will do anything for you—anything. You shall live in Aix—we shall all worship you—and you will be happy.”
“But if I cannot make him happy?” she asked mournfully.
“You will, you will, you must! He loves you—there will be nothing else in the world for him.” The old man could not contain his anguish of apprehension. “Do not tell me that you could forsake him!”
She dried her eyes on a little handkerchief she took from her muff; after a few seconds of self-control she spoke gently—
“Monseigneur, I shall be here to-morrow. I am not going to break the promise I gave Luc. I am quite—content—only a little shocked. Please do not grieve so—he might have died, you know.” She smiled wistfully.
He kissed her hands, and she felt his hard wrung tears on them. When he raised his head she leant forward and kissed his poor wrinkled cheek, then left him swiftly with no backward look.
“Might have died,” she wailed to herself as she shivered down the hall; “he ought to have died for every one’s sake—feeble, disfigured, nearly—blind!”