He left her in the evening at an early hour. Daniel told the Marquise that the Count worked no longer; that he heard him pacing up and down the greater part of the night. At the same time his health failed visibly. The Marquise ventured once to interrogate him. As they were both walking one day in the park, she said:
“You are hiding something from me. You suffer, my friend. What is the cause?”
“There is nothing.”
“I pray you tell me!”
“Nothing is the matter with me,” he replied, petulantly.
“Is it your son that you regret?”
“I regret nothing.” After a few steps taken in silence—“When I think,” he said, quickly, “that there is one person in the world who considers me a coward—for I hear always that word in my ear—and who treated me like a coward, and who believed it when it was said, and believes it still! If it had been a man, it would be easy, but it was a woman.”
After this sudden explosion he was silent.
“Very well; what do you desire?” said the Marquise, with vexation. “Do you wish that I should go and tell her the truth—tell her that you were ready to defend her against me—that you love her, and hate me? If it be that you wish, say so. I believe if this life continues I shall be capable of doing anything!”
“Do not you also outrage me! Dismiss me, if that will give you pleasure; but I love you only. My pride bleeds, that is all; and I give you my word of honor that if you ever affront me by going to justify me, I shall never in my life see you or her. Embrace me!” and he pressed her to his heart.