I had scarcely finished reading it when Edmee returned, and came towards
the fire-place with an anxious look, as if she had forgotten some
precious object. I handed her the letter that I had just read; but she
took it absently, and, stooping over the hearth with an air of relief,
eagerly seized a crumpled piece of paper which the flames had merely
scorched. This was the first answer she had written to M. de la Marche's
note, the one she had not judged fit to send.
"Edmee," I said, throwing myself on my knees, "let me see that letter.
Whatever if may be, I will submit to the decree dictated by your first
impulse."
"You really would?" she asked, with an indefinable expression.
"Supposing I loved M. de la Marche, and that I was making a great
sacrifice for your sake in refusing him, would you be generous enough to
release me from my word?"
I hesitated for a moment. A cold sweat broke out all over me. I looked
her full in the face; but her eyes were inscrutable and betrayed no hint
of her thoughts. If I had fancied that she really loved me and that
she was putting my virtue to the test, I should perhaps have played the
hero; but I was afraid of some trap. My passion overmastered me. I felt
that I had not the strength to renounce my claim with a good grace; and
hypocrisy was repugnant to me. I rose to my feet, trembling with rage.
"You love him!" I cried. "Confess that you love him!"
"And if I did," she answered, putting the letter in her pocket, "where
would be the crime?"
"The crime would be that hitherto you have lied in telling me that you
did not love him.
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