"I'd marry her," answered Maurice, banging his fist on the table,
"even if all the kings and queens of Europe rose up against me.
I would marry her, if I had to bind her hands and feet and carry
her to the altar and force the priest at the point of a pistol,
which, in all probability, is what you will have to do."
"I love her," sullenly.
"Do you know who she is?"
"No."
"Would it make any difference?"
"No. Who is she?"
"She is a woman without conscience; she is a woman who, to gain
her miserable ends, will stop neither at falsehood, deceit nor
bloodshed. Do you want me to tell you more? She is--"
"Maurice, tell me nothing which will cause me to regret your
friendship. I love her; she has promised to be my wife."
"She will ruin you."
"She has already done that," laconically.
"Do you mean to tell me--"
"Yes! For the promise of her love I am dishonored. For the
privilege of kissing her lips I have sold my honor. To call her
mine, I would go through hell. God! do you know what it is to be
lonely, to starve in God-forsaken lands, to dream of women, to
long for them?"
"And the poor paralytic king?"
"What is he to me?"
"And your father?"
"What are my dead father's wishes? Maurice, I am mad!"
"You are a very sick man," Maurice replied crossly.
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