I cannot go!"
There was something pitiful in the child's voice and gesture,
something pathetic in the little appeal to her father's
memory, that might have touched any one less animated by a
stern sense of duty than the Countess. As it was, she was not
in the least affected.
"On the contrary, _mon enfant_," she answered, "I shall be doing
you the greatest kindness, and no more than my duty, in taking
you back there; and we have agreed that you shall return with
me at once."
"I will not go!" cried Madelon, wildly; "I cannot, I will
not!--I will not! Do you hear? What right have you to take me?
I am not your child!--I will not go with you!"
She got up as she spoke, confronting the Countess, and trying
to throw all the energy of which she was capable into her
vehement words. But even in her own ears her voice sounded
shrill and weak, and seemed to die away as if she were talking
in her sleep; the very strength of her emotion appeared
unreal, and failing her when she most needed it: her words
seemed to have no meaning, and as she finished speaking, she
dropped down on her seat again with a little sob, feeling that
she was conquered, for she had no power of resistance left in
her.
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