"Monsieur," she said in a voice that trembled somewhat, "I have, indeed,
misjudged you. The shame of it has made me hold aloof from you since we
left Blois. I cannot tell you, Monsieur, how deep that shame has been, or
with what sorrow I have been beset for the words I uttered at Canaples.
Had I but paused to think--"
"Nay, nay, Mademoiselle, 't was all my fault, I swear. I left you overlong
the dupe of appearances."
"But I should not have believed them so easily. Say that I am forgiven,
Monsieur," she pleaded; "tell me what reparation I can make."
"There is one reparation that you can make if you are so minded," I
answered, "but 'tis a life-long reparation."
They were bold words, indeed, but my voice played the coward and shook so
vilely that it bereft them of half their boldness. But, ah, Dieu, what
joy, what ecstasy was mine to see how they were read by her; to remark the
rich, warm blood dyeing her cheeks in a bewitching blush; to behold the
sparkle that brightened her matchless eyes as they met mine!
"Yvonne!"
"Gaston!"
She was in my arms at last, and the work of reparation was begun whilst
together we gazed across the sun-gilt sea towards the fading shores of
France.
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