With bitter shame and self-scorning he spoke.—Poor Jacqueline had not a word to say. She sat beside him. She would help him bear his cross. Heavy-laden as he, she awaited the future, saying, in the silence of her spirit's dismal solitude, "Oh, teach us! Oh, help us!" But she called not on any name; her prayer went out in search of a God whom in that hour she knew not. The dark cloud and shadow of Satan that overshadowed him was also upon her.
"Mazurier is coming in the morning to take me with him, Jacqueline," said Victor. "We are to make a journey."
"What is it, Victor?" she asked, quietly.
There was nothing left for her but patience,—that she clearly saw,—nothing but patience, and quiet enduring of the will of God.
"He is afraid of me,—or of himself,—or of both, I believe. He thinks a change of scene would be good for both of us, poor lepers that we are."
"I must go with you, Victor Le Roy," said the resolute Jacqueline.
"Wherefore?" asked he.
"Because, when you were strong and happy, that was your desire, Victor; and now that you are sick and sorrowing, I will not give you to another: no! not to Mazurier, nor to any one that breathes, except myself, to whom you belong."
"I must stay here in Meaux, then?"
"That depends upon yourself, Victor."