I saw her eyes dilate as though she were unable to believe her senses; what the various emotions that chased each other over her pink and white face meant I was unable to decide.
But she must have seen from my cold and haughty manner that I had not come to sue for her queenly pardon; my wrongs still rankled in my breast, or something did that answered the same purpose, and there was no sign of yielding in my appearance.
And yet, God knows I had difficulty in fighting down the mad longing to rush forward and seize upon her, to crush her to my heart as I had once been wont to do, and, casting aside all doubt, and pride, and hateful memories, call her again, “my Hildegarde.”
Her voice aroused me from the half stupor into which I had been thrown by the very violence of these various warring emotions.
“So, it is you?” she said, coldly.
That killed every bud of promise, even as a frost blights those of vegetation, and I was immediately thrown on my guard.
If she could be hateful, there was no good reason why I might not match her.
“Yes, I believe it is. My friend Robbins induced me to join him in this affair. I did not dream of meeting you, though.”
“Perhaps you might not have come if you had seen my name in the note?”
The scorn of her words lashed me. How she hated me, who had once been all the world to her.