“Then you will not go, Caroline?”
“No; kill me if you like, and bear my dead body into the hall, but living, I can never show my face again before men—hardly before you, François,” added she, blushing, as she hid her tearful eyes on his shoulder.
“Well then, Caroline,” replied, he, really admiring her spirit and resolution, “they shall finish their carouse without seeing you. The wine has flowed to-night in rivers, but they shall swim in it without you.”
“And tears have flowed down here,” said she, sadly,—“oh, so bitter! May you never taste their bitterness, François!”
Bigot paced the chamber with steadier steps than he had entered it. The fumes were clearing from his brain; the song that had caught the ear of Colonel Philibert as he approached the Château was resounding at this moment. As it ceased Bigot heard the loud impatient knocking of Philibert at the outer door.
“Darling!” said he, “lie down now, and compose yourself. François Bigot is not unmindful of your sacrifices for his sake. I must return to my guests, who are clamoring for me, or rather for you, Caroline!”
He kissed her cheek and turned to leave her, but she clung to his hand as if wanting to say something more ere he went. She trembled visibly as her low plaintive tones struck his ear.
“François! if you would forsake the companionship of those men and purify your table of such excess, God's blessing would yet descend upon you, and the people's love follow you! It is in your power to be as good as you are great! I have many days wished to say this to you, but alas, I feared you too much. I do not fear you to-day, François, after your kind words to me.”
Bigot was not impenetrable to that low voice so full of pathos and love. But he was at a loss what to reply: strange influences were flowing round him, carrying him out of himself. He kissed the gentle head that reclined on his bosom. “Caroline,” said he, “your advice is wise and good as yourself. I will think of it for your sake, if not for my own. Adieu, darling! Go, and take rest: these cruel vigils are killing you, and I want you to live in hope of brighter days.”
“I will,” replied she, looking up with ineffable tenderness. “I am sure I shall rest after your kind words, François. No dew of Heaven was ever more refreshing than the balm they bring to my weary soul. Thanks, O my François, for them!” She kissed his lips, and Bigot left the secret chamber a sadder and for the moment a better man than he had ever been before.