At last, "A fig for your gratitude,"
he said. "I want your love! I suppose--cold as you are, and a
Huguenot--you can love like other women!"
It was the first, the very first time he had used the word to her; and
though it fell from his lips like a threat, though he used it as a man
presents a pistol, she flushed anew from throat to brow. But she did not
quail.
"It is not mine to give," she said.
"It is his?"
"Yes, Monsieur," she answered, wondering at her courage, at her audacity,
her madness. "It is his."
"And it cannot be mine--at any time?"
She shook her head, trembling.
"Never?" And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron
grasp. There was passion in his tone. His eyes burned her.
Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry
in her ears of little children and of helpless women, something in a
moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice. She
raised her head and looked him firmly in the face.
"What," she said, "do you mean by love?"
"You!" he answered brutally.
"Then--it may be, Monsieur," she returned. "There is a way if you will."
"A way!"
"If you will!"
As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had
released her wrist. He rose with her, and they stood confronting one
another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars.
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