Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it
sat uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his
sense of guilt. The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could
not distort it into a virtue, try as he would. He lacked that
cunning artifice which a man of the world possesses, that of
winning over to the right a misdeed.
And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life,
Carewe had betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how
frail his house of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he
had until to-day deemed special favors were favors common to all
these military dandies. They, too, could kiss Madame's hand, and
he could do no more. And yet she held him. Did she love him? He
could not tell. All he knew was that it was impossible not to
love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination of the woman
beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and
oppressions. . . . To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by
force to the altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.
If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her
fancy a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within.
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