“Love! Love! What sort of love is that which would blight and destroy the object that has kindled it? What is it in me you think you love? My face? My form? Would these retain their comeliness in your eyes when you knew that beneath them burnt the fire of hate? When I could never suffer you, without a shudder, even to look into my eyes? When at your approach you found me shrink; when your lightest touch would seem to be repugnant? Oh, put this cowardice away from you, and understand the truth as it is. If there be this feeling for me that you deem, have courage to see that it is wrong and evil. If it were love it would be selfless, and you would seek my happiness, not your own mere desires. The flame will burn out and die down; and if you will but act as a man should act, you will grow to hate the thing you now desire, and thank me for having kept you true to a man’s better part.” “Do you mean you would have me see you marry this man? I would see you dead sooner. And he shall die,” he cried fiercely. “My mind is made up. If you will not save him, his blood will be on your head.” Gabrielle had not hoped to move him, and his decision stirred no surprise. She had pleaded urgently and sweetly; but with another thought than that of prevailing with him. She had to disarm his suspicion so that time might be gained, and now began to let her alarm make itself evident. “He must not die; he must not,” she said, after a pause. “You can save him by a word.” “I must have time. I have told you I love him; and I swear to you that if he were to die now I could not--nay, I would not survive him. I would take my own life. My God! I could not bear it yet,” she cried, wildly and vehemently. He had not looked for this; and the thought, impressed as it was by the conviction that she was in deadly earnest, alarmed him and kept him silent. Before he could find any words to reply, she continued with equal vehemence. “Yes, yes, it shall be so. You are right, you are right. His blood will be on my head. I shall be his murderess. His murderess!” She changed her almost hysterical passion to a low tone of intense earnestness as she repeated the words. “His murderess! Then it is right that I should die. Who kills, dies. It is the law of the universe. And how I should welcome death! Do this thing. Kill him; kill him. Do not stay to give me time to learn that he is unworthy; and let me die, loving him, trusting him, and believing him to be the noblest and best man in all fair France. Then indeed can I die happy and be happy to die.” The outburst prompted just the thought she designed. “If I prove him first to be the scoundrel that he is?”