"See," she went on; "for myself, this is irremediable, but it is not so for you, nor for her. It is not too ill to be made right again. There in Montreal, I thought that I had failed in my plan, that you indeed were married. You held yourself well in hand; like a man, Monsieur. But as to that, you _were_ married, for your love for her remained; your pledge held. And did not I, repenting, marry you to her--did not I, on my knees, marry you to her that night? Oh, do not blame me too much!" "She should not have doubted," said I. "I shall not go back and ask her again. The weakest of men are strong sometimes!" "Ah, now you are but a man! Being such, you can not understand how terribly much the faith of man means for a woman. It was her _need_ for you that spoke, not her _doubt_ of you. Forgive her. She was not to blame. Blame me! Do what you like to punish me! Now, I shall make amends. Tell me what I best may do. Shall I go to her, shall I tell her?" "Not as my messenger. Not for me." "No? Well, then, for myself? That is my right. I shall tell her how priestly faithful a man you were." I walked to her, took her arms in my hands and raised her to my level, looking into her eyes. "Madam," I said, "God knows, I am no priest. I deserve no credit. It was chance that cast Elisabeth and me together before ever I saw you. I told you one fire was lit in my heart and had left room for no other. I meet youth and life with all that there is in youth and life. I am no priest, and ask you not to confess with me. We both should confess to our own souls." "It is as I said," she went on; "you were married!" "Well, then, call it so--married after my fashion of marriage; the fashion of which I told you, of a cabin and a bed of husks. As to what you have said, I forget it, I have not heard it. Your sort could have no heart beat for one like me. 'Tis men like myself are slaves to women such as you. You could never have cared for me, and never did. What you loved, Madam, was only what you had _lost_, was only what you saw in this country--was only what this country means! Your past life, of course, I do not know." "Sometime," she murmured, "I will tell you." "Whatever it was, Madam, you have been a brilliant woman, a power in affairs. Yes, and an enigma, and to none more than to yourself. You show that now. You only loved what Elisabeth loved. As woman, then, you were born for the first time, touched by that throb of her heart, not your own. `Twas mere accident I was there to feel that throb, as sweet as it was innocent. You were not woman yet, you were but a child. You had not then chosen. You have yet to choose. It was Love that you loved! Perhaps, after all, it was America you loved. You began to see, as you say, a wider and a sweeter world than you had known." She nodded now, endeavoring to smile. "_Gentilhomme!_" I heard her murmur.