"I was weighing the matter of preference," with a wave of the hand;
"whether to challenge the vicomte first, or D'Hérouville. Give me the
rest of the list."
"Monsieur, I admire the facility with which you adapt yourself to
circumstances," scornfully. "You knew that I was but playing. I am
fully capable of repaying any insolence offered to me, whether from
D'Hérouville, the vicomte . . . or yourself."
"To love you, then, is insolence?"
"Yes; the method which you use is insolent."
"Is there any way to prove that I love you?" admirably hiding his
despair.
"What! Monsieur, you go a-courting without buckles on your shoes?"
"Diane, let us play at cross-purposes no longer. You may laugh,
thrust, scorn, trample, it will in no wise effect the constancy of my
love. I do not ask you to set tasks for me. Now, hark to me: where
you go henceforth, there shall I go also, to France, to Spain, to the
ends of the world. You will never be so far away from the sound of my
voice that you can not hear me say that I love you."
"That is persecution!"
"It is love. I shall master you some day," recovering his hat and
standing, "be that day near or far. I am a man, a man of heart and
courage. You need no proof of that. I have bent my knee to you for
the last time but once. I shall no more entreat," holding his head
high.
"Truly, Monsieur!" her wrath running over.
"Wait! You have forced me, for some purpose unknown, to love you.
Well, I will force you to love me, though God alone knows how."
"You do well to add that clause," hotly. "Your imagination is too
large. Force me to love you?" She laughed shrilly.
But his eye was steady, even though his broad chest swelled.
"You have asked me who I am," she cried. "Then, listen: I am . . . ."
His face was without eagerness. It was firm.
"I am . . ." she began again.
"The woman I love, the woman who shall some day be my wife."
"Must I call you a coward, Monsieur?" blazing.
"I held you in my arms the other night; you will recollect that I had
the courage to release you."
Madame saw that she had lost the encounter, for the simple reason that
the right was all on his side, the wrong and injustice on hers.
Instinctively she felt that if she told him all he in his gathering
coolness would accept it as an artifice, an untruth. Her handkerchief,
which she had nervously rolled into a ball, fell to the walk. He
picked it up, but to the outstretched hand he shook his head.
"That is mine, Monsieur; give it to me."