“It is not pride in me,” he said, at last.
“Not pride?”
“No. What could we hope for, she—and I? Would she be happy with me? No, by Heaven, for we should hate each other in a week! What good could there be in such a life, for us?—one long tavern brawl till we grew more brutal and besotted, each dragging each deeper into the mire. How could Letta, poor wench, help me to gain what I have sworn in my heart to win? How could I give her all my homage in return? No, we should both sink; perhaps—in the end—she would stab me—or I—her.”
He had spoken rapidly, almost with fierceness, feeling the inevitable destiny beating within his heart. At the end he drew breath and leaned against the wall, still watching Tiphaïne at the prie-dieu.
“Yes, you are right,” she said; “one cannot mend life with a make-believe. And then—”
“There is her home at Ancenis.”
Tiphaïne thought a moment.
“Let me talk to her—alone. Perhaps she may listen.”
XV
A faint cry came stealing through the silence of the place, like the wail of a bird that passes on the night wind and is gone.