Her face was ashen, and her magnificent eyes had a strange look in them.
“Could you respect me and count me your friend, Léonie, if I feigned an affection which did not really exist within me?” I asked. “Reason with yourself for a moment. Had I been unscrupulous towards you I might yesterday have told you that I reciprocated your affection, and—”
“And you do not?” she cried. “Tell me the truth plainly, once and for all.”
“You offered me in exchange for my love a secret which would enable me to defeat the enemies of my country, and probably cause my advancement in the diplomatic service. You offered me the greatest temptation possible.”
“No;” she said, putting up her hand, “do not use the word temptation.”
“I will call it inducement, then. Well, this inducement was strong enough to persuade me to break the bond of friendship between us, and to cause me to occupy a false position. But I have hesitated, because—”
“Because you do not love me,” she said quickly, interrupting me.
“No, Léonie,” I protested. “Between us it is hard to define the exact line where friendship ends and love begins. Our own discretion should be able to define it. Tell me, which do you prefer—a firm friend—or a false lover?”
“You are too coldly philosophical,” she answered. “I only put it to you from a common-sense standpoint.”
“And which position is to be preferred?” she asked. “Your own, as that of a diplomatist with a paltry fifty thousand francs or so a year, and compelled to worry yourself over every trifling action of those who represent the Courts of your enemies; or that of my husband, with an income that would place you far above the necessity of allowing your brain to be worried by everyday trifles?”