However, he said nothing for the moment, but
watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her
until unconsciously his face softened, and what looked almost like
tears seemed to glisten in his eyes.
"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murderous dog of
the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it?. . .Begad,
Madame," he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob
hysterically, "will you dry your tears?. . .I never could bear to see
a pretty woman cry, and I. . ."
Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight
of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and
the next, would have seized her and held her to him, protected from
every evil with his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But
pride had the better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained
himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though
still very gently,--
"Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I
may have the honour to serve you?"
She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her
tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he
kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers,
this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was
absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand
trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold
as marble.
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