What
would I not forgive to passion? but to seek to possess me without
love, and to write to that woman--"
"To whom have I written?" he said, with an astonishment which was
certainly not feigned.
"To that chaste woman who sought to kill me."
The marquis turned pale with anger and said, grasping the back of a
chair until he broke it, "If Madame du Gua has committed some
dastardly wrong--"
Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked for the letter; not finding it she
called to Francine.
"Where is that letter?" she asked.
"Monsieur Corentin took it."
"Corentin! ah! I understand it all; he wrote the letter; he has
deceived me with diabolical art--as he alone can deceive."
With a piercing cry she flung herself on the sofa, tears rushing from
her eyes. Doubt and confidence were equally dreadful now. The marquis
knelt beside her and clasped her to his breast, saying, again and
again, the only words he was able to utter:--
"Why do you weep, my darling? there is no harm done; your reproaches
were all love; do not weep, I love you--I shall always love you."
Suddenly he felt her press him with almost supernatural force. "Do you
still love me?" she said, amid her sobs.
"Can you doubt it?" he replied in a tone that was almost melancholy.
She abruptly disengaged herself from his arms, and fled, as if
frightened and confused, to a little distance.
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