“You coward! Why do you not put such a question to M. de Maxwell himself?”
“It might prove embarrassing, madame. Almost as embarrassing as if I had obeyed the orders of your friend M. le Marquis de Montcalm, and brought you to M. le Chevalier de Maxwell, as you desired.”
“I am completely at a loss to know what you mean,” I said, boldly, but my heart sank at his words.
“Simply this, madame,” and he handed me an open letter.
“MONSIEUR” [I read],—“If you have any regard for me, keep the lady claiming to be my wife at such a distance that I may never set eyes on her again. Should she be in want, I will gladly reimburse you for any expenditure you may make on her account.
“LE CHEVR DE MAXWELL.”
It was almost like a blow, and for a moment I stood numb and bewildered; but the realisation of my danger, from the man who stood there smiling at my degradation, was a spur to me, and I neither fainted nor cried aloud.
“A pitiable situation, truly! Believe me, my dear madame, my heart bleeds for you.”
“You are a liar, as well as a coward, monsieur. I know not what you have said or written to M. de Maxwell, but neither he nor any man can ever cast me off. I am not his wife!”
“Thank God for that!” he cried, in so different a voice that I looked at him in surprise. “Thank God for that! Marguerite, I love you with my whole heart, and body, and life. I know I am nothing but a rough coureur de bois, in spite of my birth. I have been cruel to you. I have tortured you. Forgive me, forgive me! I knew of no other way to woo you. Teach me to be gentle, and I will be gentle for your sake. But, God in heaven! do not ask me to give you up! I cannot live without you. I have lost my soul to you. I have lost everything, for I should not be beside you even now!”