She laughed, long and merrily. He cried, hoarsely:
"Stop! Damn you, stop! You've tortured me enough!"
"Amedee served us that morning," she continued, unmindful; "or was it Francois?—no, Amedee. He spilt the coffee upon the table cloth twice, in his anxiety lest he embarrass us. And when you kissed me," with a little ripple of mirth, "he looked the other way, covering his lips with his hand. Oh, admirable Amedee! … The breeze was stirring that morning, Fool—do you remember?—and the dead leaves of yester-year fell about us— so!" She plucked a great handful of crimson petals from her breast and cast them above her head. They fell about him, and about her. "And I dipped sugar in my coffee and fed it to you, and you let me read your wife's letter." Again she laughed.
Through his clenched teeth came a muttered curse.
"It was interesting, drolly interesting…. that letter." she continued.
"She couldn't understand why your mission detained you so long!"
Yet again she laughed, merrily, ringingly. Suddenly she shifted, lithely, the poise of her body.
"Bah! I weary of this, and of you…. But before I go," she leaned far forward, eyes on his, vivid lips curved, bare breast shimmering, "a kiss, My Fool!"
"Why do you come here?" he cried, piteously. "Have you not done enough? Is there no pity in your heart—no sympathy—no human feeling of any kind?"
"I've heard you say so, in other days," she smiled.
"Let me go," he begged. "Haven't you done enough? There is no misery that I have not suffered—no degradation that I have not reached—no depths to which I have not sunk—no dishonor that I have not felt. Great God! What more do you want of me?"