The innocent girl, so bitterly wronged by his thoughts and words, crimsoned with indignation at the memory of them. Her tone was icy.
"I may be able to forgive you, Monsieur, but that is all you can hope for."
"Will you never be able to love me again?" begged Henri, with the humble simplicity of a boy.
"No, Monsieur." Wilhelmine's voice was hard.
It was all Henri could do not to burst into tears of humiliation and despair.
"Wilhelmine—you are cruel!... If you could only know how you are making me suffer! Oh, I know I deserve to suffer! I recognise that!... All I can say now is—Farewell!... Farewell for ever!"
Wilhelmine sat silent, her face hidden in her hands.
Henri went on:
"I leave Paris shortly. I have asked for an exchange. I am to be sent to Africa, to the outposts of Morocco. I shall carry with me the memory—how cherished—of your adorable self, dearest of the dear!... It shall live in my heart until the day when, if Heaven but hear my prayers, I shall die at the head of my troops."
With that de Loubersac moved slowly to the door, overwhelmed by the conviction that he had irreparably wounded the girl he adored, that he had destroyed for ever the love she had borne him!