“But no, let me not curse you, great city! Here at the gateway of death let me envisage you again, and from the depths of the heart you have broken say to you sadly: ‘London, ruthless, splendid London, I forgive!’”
My hand quivered as I laid the grey stick at the base of the monument; my hand trembled as I planted a large wax match in it; my hand positively shook as I struck another match and applied a light to the upright one. With eyes dilated I stared at the tiny flickering flame, and at that moment, so worked up was I, I will swear I thought I was looking at the very flame of death.
“Come closer, closer girl,” I gasped. “See it burning down, down. Soon it will reach the end and we will know nothing. Oh is it not glorious—nothing! Good-bye world, good-bye life ... see! it is nearly half way. Oh gracious flame, burn faster, faster yet! And now, girl, standing here in the shadow of death do not refuse my last request; let me kiss you once, just once upon your brow.”
For answer she stooped swiftly and blew out the match.
CHAPTER X
THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD
“Why did you do it?” I demanded angrily. “Why couldn’t we have gone through with it?”
Then for the first time the girl seemed to find her voice, and it was a very faint voice indeed.
“No, no, I could not. For myself it does not mattaire; but you, monsieur—that’s different.”
Again I was struck with her foreign intonation, her pretty precision with which Frenchwomen speak English, the deliberate utterance due to an effort, not wholly successful, to avoid zeeing and zizzing.
“Why is it so different?” I asked sulkily.