"Monsieur, I entreat of you this last boon, to let me go. You have insulted me in the presence of a stranger; for me, therefore, nothing else remains. You have inquired if you should kill me. No, Philippe, you need not kill me; it is myself I will kill!"
"Antoinette!"
"I am no longer Antoinette; I am the woman whose happiness you have destroyed. It is only when I am dead that you will learn what is written on my heart for you."
"Antoinette," the strong man's voice faltered, "Antoinette, am I never, then, to be forgiven?"
There was a momentary pause. Then the lady held out both her hands. "Philippe!"
"My heart! my soul! thou treasure of my life! thou star of my existence! Is it possible that a cloud should have interposed itself between thy path and mine?"
He took her in his arms. He pressed her to his breast. M. Berigny turned away. From his attitude it almost seemed as if the soldier--the man of ramrods and of bayonets!--wiped away a tear.
"Philippe! Take care, or you will derange my hat!"
"Antoinette! My beautiful, my own!"
"Philippe, do you not think you should apologize--take care, my friend, or you certainly will derange my hat!--to the stranger who has made immortal the face of the woman who loved you better than her life--my friend, take care!--who has made her appear on canvas so much more beautiful than she is in life?"