you—by her. Marie, was it not true?” he cried, dragging himself nearer to her.
“True!” she echoed—and no more.
But it was enough. For an instant he glared at her; then he cried:
“That old fiend has played a trick on me! She has got the necklace!”
And I began to understand the smile that I had seen on Mme. Delhasse’s face, and her marvelous good humor; and I began to have my opinion concerning her evening stroll to Pontorson. Bontet and Pierre had been matched against more than they thought.
The duke, painfully supported on his hand, drew nearer still to Marie; but she rose to her feet and retreated a pace as he advanced. And he said:
“But you love me, Marie? You would have”
She interrupted him.
“Above all men I loathe you!” she said, looking on him with shrinking and horror in her face.
His wound was heavy on him—he was shot in the stomach and was bleeding inwardly—and had drawn his features; his pain brought a sweat on his brow, and his arm, trembling, scarce held him. Yet none of these things made the anguish in his eyes as he looked at her.
“This is the man I love,” said she in calm relentlessness.
And she put out her hand and took mine, and drew me to her, passing her arm through mine.
