“Yes. I am sure he paid.”
“Gaspare knew. Gaspare knew—that night. He was afraid. He knew—but he didn’t tell me. He has never told me.”
“He loved his master.”
“Gaspare loved Maurice more than he loved me.”
By the way she said that Artois knew that Gaspare was forgiven. And a sort of passion of love for woman’s love welled up in his heart. At that moment he almost worshipped Hermione for being unable, even in that moment, not to love Gaspare because Gaspare had loved the dead man more than he loved her.
“But Gaspare loves you,” he said.
“I don’t believe in love. I don’t want love any more.”
Again the voice was transformed. It had become hollow and weary, without resonance, like the voice of some one very old. And Artois thought of Virgil’s Grotto, of all they had said there, and of how the rock above them had broken into deep and sinister murmurings, as if to warn them, or rebuke.
And now, too, there were murmurings about them, but below them from the sea.
“Hermione, we must speak only the truth to-night.”