“She is willing for our marriage to be dissolved.” “Does that make my treachery to her less ignoble? If the thing stood on any other ground than where you put it by these words, it would still be wrong--a cruel, cowardly wrong to her; but to plead for it no more than mere passion, is to clothe it with its vilest dress.” “There are other reasons--many,” he said sullenly. “You wish to wield influence in the rule of the people; I give you a chance. ’Twas but yesterday I put the matter so to you.” “The baseness of the act is not lessened by wrapping it about with specious pleas. And I will be frank with you; for frankness in such a crisis is best. I could never feel to you as a wife should feel toward her husband. The shame of this wrong to my friend would ever be a canker to blight all other thoughts, and make my life--our lives--one lengthened monotone of remorse and pain.” “I would leave that issue to time and my love. You did not think thus until within the last few hours.” “I will deal with you frankly, as I said. I understand you; and in some part you are right. I love this man who is in your power. I believe him good and true and noble; I am not ashamed of my love. Love comes to every woman at some time in her life, and she is powerless to resist it. That is our nature. This has come to me. Could I then wed another man while yet the love for him burns like a fever, filling my heart with thoughts of him, gladdening it with hopes for him; and forming already more, far more, than half my life?” “You are frank, as you say; but such frankness is ill hearing.” “If it be ill to hear me speak of it--and I am calm enough to speak without temper and say this not to anger but to prevail with you--if it be ill for you to hear me speak of it, what would it be in the after time to live ever with the knowledge of it? Think you that happiness lies that way? You with the knowledge that my heart is given to another man; I with the bitterness of remorse for the wrong you would have me do, relieved only by the ever aching sorrow of a broken heart?” “I wish to hear no more.” “Nay, but you must hear me. Only a coward would shut his ears to the truth; and you at least are no coward. You have not thought what kind of thing this really is that you would do. Were I to wed you as you now wish, we should grow to hate one another. Your passion would cool and you would come to feel the bitterness of the mistake, the galling yoke of the load on your life and would look on me as the cause.” “You little know me, Gabrielle.” “Then at least I know myself. I am but a girl and very human; and in the long dark hours of my misery and unavailing remorse, my spirit, unbroken--for we Malincourts are not easily broken--would revolt against you as the cause. Would yours be happier? Have you thought what life would be to be mated with a woman who hated you, as we Malincourts can hate?” “I love you. I think of naught else,” he said doggedly.