‘Amen!’ I said quietly. But, in spite of myself, I could not meet her eyes.
‘Why?’ she answered, quickly taking alarm at; my silence. ‘What of him, M. de Barthe? Why have you mentioned him?’
‘Because he is here, Mademoiselle.’
‘Here?’ she exclaimed. ‘At Cocheforet?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I answered soberly. ‘I am he.’
CHAPTER X. CLON
‘You!’ she cried, in a voice which pierced my heart. ‘You are M. de Berault? It is impossible!’ But, glancing askance at her—I could not face her I saw that the blood had left her cheeks.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle,’ I answered in a low tone. ‘De Barthe was my mother’s name. When I came here, a stranger, I took it that I might not be known; that I might again speak to a good woman, and not see her shrink. That, and—but why trouble you with all this?’ I continued rebelling, against her silence, her turned shoulder, her averted face. ‘You asked me, Mademoiselle, how I could take a blow and let the striker go. I have answered. It is the one privilege M. de Berault possesses.’
‘Then,’ she replied almost in a whisper, ‘if I were M. de Berault, I would avail myself of it, and never fight again.’