“And yet I can find it in me to forgive him the balance of his punishment,” cried the Count.
“And what for might that be?” said she.
“Because, Mademoiselle Olivia, he led me to Scotland and to your father's door.”
She saw a rapture in his manner, a kindling in his eye, and drew herself together with some pride.
“You were welcome to my father's door; I am sure of that of it, whatever,” said she, “but it was a poor reward for so long a travelling. And now, my grief! We must steep the withies and go ourselves to the start of fortune like any beggars.”
“No! no!” said he, and caught her hand that trembled in his like a bird. “Olivia!—oh, God, the name is like a song—je t'aime! je t'aime! Olivia, I love you!”
She plucked her hand away and threw her shoulders back, haughty, yet trembling and on the brink of tears.
“It is not kind—it is not kind,” she stammered, almost sobbing. “The lady that is in France.”
“Petite imbecile!” he cried, “there is no lady in France worthy to hold thy scarf; 'twas thyself, mignonne, I spoke of all the time; only the more I love the less I can express.”
He drew her to him, crushing the jasmine till it breathed in a fragrant dissolution, bruising her breast with the topaz.