“And it was my fault!” she cried. “I brought you bad luck, and that wretch of a Landry knew well what he was about when he made me cut the cards that brought you misfortune!”
“No, no, my dear-listen! The only one in fault was I, who allowed myself, through false pride, to be persuaded that I should not seem to fear him.”
“Fear him—a professional gambler, who lives one knows not how! Nonsense! It is as if one should fight a duel with a fencing-master.”
“What do you wish, my dear? The evil is done—and it is so great—”
“That you have not the means to pay the sum? Oh, but wait a moment.”
And taking up a casket containing a superb collar of pearls, she said:
“This is worth fourteen thousand francs. You may well take them from me, since it was you that gave them to me.”
No doubt, she had read De Musset, and this action was perhaps a refection of that of Marion, but the movement was sincere. Something of the stern pride of this other Rolla was stirred; a sob swelled his bosom, and two tears—those tears that rise to a soldier’s eyes in the presence of nobility and goodness—fell from his eyes upon the hair of the poor girl.
“I have not come to that yet,” he said, after a short silence. “But we must part—”
“You are about to marry?” she cried.