In the dreary
picture of his life there was now an illumined corner. He had
ceased to blame her; she was doing for her country what he, did
necessity so will, would do for his. And after all, he could not
war against a woman--a woman like this. His innate chivalry was
too deep-rooted.
How soft her voice was! The color of her hair and eyes followed
him night and day. Once he had been on the verge of sounding
Maurice in regard to Madame, Maurice was so learned in
femininities; but this would have been an acknowledgment of his
ignorance, and pride closed his mouth. It was all impossible,
but then, why should he return to his loneliness without
attempting to find some one to share it with him? The king was
safe; his duty was as good as done; his conscience was at ease
in that direction. He needed not love, he thought, so much as
sympathy. . . . Sympathy. He turned over the word in his mind as
a gem merchant turns over in his hand a precious jewel. Sympathy;
it was the key to all he desired --woman's sympathy. There was
nothing but ash in the bowl of his pipe, but he continued to
puff.
Madame was seated at the piano again, idly thrumming soft minor
chords.
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