The shadow of
the sundial fell between us; the garden was still; here and there
a leaf fluttered slowly down. With each instant of that silence,
of that aversion, I felt the gulf between us growing wider, I
felt myself growing harder; I mocked at her past which was so
unlike mine; I mocked at mine, and called it fate. I was on the
point of turning from her with a bow--and with a furnace in my
breast--when she spoke.
'There is a last rose lingering there,' she said, a slight tremor
in her voice. 'I cannot reach it. Will you pluck it for me, M.
de Berault?'
I obeyed her, my hand trembling, my face on fire. She took the
rose from me, and placed it in the bosom of her dress, And I saw
that her hand trembled too, and that her cheek was dark with
blushes.
She turned without more ado, and began to walk towards the house.
'Heaven forbid that I should misjudge you a second time!' she
said in a low voice. 'And, after all, who am I, that I should
judge you at all? An hour ago I would have killed that man had I
possessed the power.'
'You repented, Mademoiselle,' I said huskily.
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