She was crying.
'M. de Barthe,' she said, in a trembling voice, which told me
that the victory was won, 'is there nothing else? Have you no
other penance for me?'
'None, Mademoiselle.'
She had drawn the shawl over her head, and I no longer saw her
face.
'That is all you ask?' she murmured.
'That is all I ask--now,' I answered.
'It is granted,' she said slowly and firmly. 'Forgive me if I
seem to speak lightly--if I seem to make little of your
generosity or my shame; but I can say no more now. I am so deep
in trouble and so gnawed by terror that--I cannot feel anything
keenly to-night, either shame or gratitude. I am in a dream; God
grant that it may pass as a dream! We are sunk in trouble. But
for you and what you have done, M. de Barthe--I--' she paused and
I heard her fighting with the sobs which choked her--'forgive
me... I am overwrought. And my--my feet are cold,' she added,
suddenly and irrelevantly. 'Will you take me home?'
'Ah, Mademoiselle,' I cried remorsefully, 'I have been a beast!
You are barefoot, and I have kept you here.'
'It is nothing,' she said in a voice which thrilled me.
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