"Do I doubt it?" she exclaimed, but a smile of gentle meaning was on
her lover's face, and the words died away upon her lips; she let him
take her by the hand and lead her to the salon. There an altar had
been hastily arranged during her absence. The priest was robed in his
officiating vestments. The lighted tapers shed upon the ceiling a glow
as soft as hope itself. She now recognized the two men who had bowed
to her, the Comte de Bauvan and the Baron du Guenic, the witnesses
chosen by Montauran.
"You will not still refuse?" said the marquis.
But at the sight she stopped, stepped backward into her chamber and
fell on her knees; raising her hands towards the marquis she cried
out: "Pardon! pardon! pardon!"
Her voice died away, her head fell back, her eyes closed, and she lay
in the arms of her lover and Francine as if dead. When she opened her
eyes they met those of the young man full of loving tenderness.
"Marie! patience! this is your last trial," he said.
"The last!" she exclaimed, bitterly.
Francine and the marquis looked at each other in surprise, but she
silenced them by a gesture.
"Call the priest," she said, "and leave me alone with him."
They did so, and withdrew.
"My father," she said to the priest so suddenly called to her, "in my
childhood an old man, white-haired like yourself, used to tell me that
God would grant all things to those who had faith.
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