"
He moved uneasily. "It is her will, not yours."
"Yes; the heart of Madame Amerbach is supine to the brain of
Madame the duchess." She rose and moved silently to the window
and peered out. He thought her to be star-gazing; but she was not.
She was endeavoring to see where Maurice and the countess were.
"Madame, shall I tell you a secret?"
"A secret? Tell me," sitting in the chair next to his.
"This has been the pleasantest week I have known in thirteen
years."
"Then you forgive me!" Madame was not only mistress of music but
of tones.
"Yes."
And then, out of the fullness of his lonely heart, he told her
all about his life, its emptiness, its deserts, its longings.
Each sentence was a knife placed in her hands; and as she
contemplated his honest face which could conceal nothing, his
earnest eyes which could hide nothing, Madame was conscious of a
vague distrust of herself. If only he had offered to fight, she
thought. But he had not; instead, he was giving to her all his
weapons of defense.
"Ah, Monsieur, you do wrong to forgive me!" impulsively.
He smiled.
"Why should you be friendly to me when I represent all that is
antagonistic to you?"
"To me you represent only a beautiful woman.
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