Roger felt his knees giving way under him. There was a bench near the tree where they stood, and he sat down upon it. Michelle stood up before him, straight and slim in the half-light. The sky was now full of stars, and by their pale splendor he could see every look that passed over her speaking face.
“But if you love me,” he stammered, “it is not yet too late.”
“Yes, it is too late.”
The echo of her words was indescribably melancholy; a night-bird’s sad cry quivering through the trees seemed like its echo.
“Yes, it is too late. To-morrow the Prince sends his people to meet me here, and then next day the marriage takes place. Of course there is a bargain in the matter. The King of France wishes certain things of the Prince of Orlamunde. The Prince demanded not only money, but a wife from France, and I, poor unfortunate that I am, agreed to be the sacrifice. I thought it great and noble to immolate myself for my King, but that was before I loved you. Now it is too late to turn back; even Berwick has gently warned me of this when he saw with what a heart of stone I come to Orlamunde. But after all, what does the happiness or misery of one woman matter? It is only the eternal passing. If I had known happiness, it would have been gone from me; none can keep it. And, at least, I have had some moments of perfect joy with you. They were few and short, but many people live through a long life without ever knowing one moment’s complete joy.”
Roger sat listening eagerly and angrily to every word, and then he burst forth,—
“But why did you bring me upon this devilish journey?”—the evil spirit in him making him think first of his own humiliation. “Berwick, the Duchess, François Delaunay, even the maître d’hôtel,—ha! ha!—must have seen how it was with me.” Roger rose and struck his forehead.
“It is that I am a very bad woman,” replied Michelle. “Berwick suggested you, and I said no word. But, at least, I did not then know all my feelings for you, all of yours for me. I said to myself: ‘This poor English gentleman is the only man who ever pleased my fancy; why not indulge myself with his company?’ You see you are not the only selfish one. You think now only of your pain. I thought only of my pleasure. And then—I know not how—from that morning in the Cathedral at Meaux, or perhaps before—only, I had not spent two full days in your company before I knew how it was with me. And now let there be no more pretence between us. Do not reckon me to be the best woman that lives; you are quite as good a man as I am a woman. It is a continual danger for us to be together. Reckon on your own strength, and know that mine is no greater. We must part. I have done wrong enough both to you and to the Prince of Orlamunde; not that it really distresses me to think of him,—I told you I am not a very good woman; his sufferings would not give me much pain. Yours would drive me to distraction if I saw them. So I must not see them. There are but two more days, as I told you. I am to reach Orlamunde to-morrow and be married the next day, and then you must go. On the day after to-morrow,—do you understand?—we part, never to meet again. Two more sunrises, two more sunsets, two more nights of pain, and everything will be over.”
Roger remained silent. She had ever an eloquent and persuasive tongue, and as she spoke, the searching melancholy of her eyes, the ineffable sadness of her voice cut him to the heart. After a pause she continued,—
“It is very hard for you, but these things are not to men what they are to women. It is much harder for me. I shall have a husband whom I hate and who will hate me, for I foresee it; I have a presentiment at this moment. But I deserve it, having done much to bring this shame and sorrow on us both.”