But her eyes remained
steadfast, candid, unashamed. It was Duchemin who dropped his gaze,
abashed.
And though nothing had any sense in his understanding other than the
words which he had just heard from the lips of the woman who held his
love--as he had known now these many days--some freak of dual
consciousness made him see, for the first time, in that moment, how
oddly bleached and wasted seemed the powerful, nervous, brown hands
that rested on his knees. And he thought: It will be long before I am
strong again.
With a troubled smile he said: "I would give much to be worthy of what
you think of me, madame. And I would be a poor thing indeed if I failed
to try to live up to your faith."
"You will not fail," she replied. "What you are, you were before my
faith was, and will be afterwards, when..."
She did not finish, but of a sudden recollected herself, lounged back
in her chair, and laughed quietly, with humorous appeal to his
sympathy.
"So, that is settled: I am not to be permitted to take my jewels to
Paris alone. What then, monsieur?"
"I would suggest you write your bankers," said Duchemin seriously, "and
tell them that you contemplate bringing to Paris some valuables to
entrust to their care.
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