“Ah!” she cried, “you seek to disarm me with levity. I recognise your habit of tolerant contempt for the mental equipment of my sex. It does not become you, monsieur;--but what does it matter! I know already your opinion of me, and how compound it is of disdain and disgust. I am soulless and cruel and capricious--perhaps ill-favoured also; but there, I think, you pronounce me inoffensive or something less. But I would have you say, monsieur--what was Lepelletier to me? I should have sickened, rather, to break bread with my uncle--whom heaven induce to the shame of repentance! And I was ill that night, so that even you might have softened in your judgment of me.” I stood amazed at the vehemence of her speech, at the rapidity of inconsequence with which she pelted me with any chance missile that came to her hand. It was evident the poor child was overwrought to a degree; and I was fixed helpless between my passionate desire to reassure and comfort her and my sense of her repudiation of my right to do so. Now, it happened that, where words would have availed little, a mute appeal--the manner of which it was beyond my power to control--was to serve the best purposes of reconciliation. For suddenly, as I dwelt bewildered upon the wet flashing of Carinne’s eyes, emotion and fatigue, coupled with the sick pain of my wound, so wrought upon me that the vault went reeling and I with it. I heard her cry out; felt her clutch me,--and then there was sense for little but exhaustion in my drugged brain. * * * * * * * “I am on the floor, Carinne?” “On the floor, _mon ami_.” “I am not so little a weight, you see. You tried to support me to the bench and failed--for I know.” “But you were a dead-weight.” “Not dead yet, _chattemite_. Only I think I am dying.” “No, no, little Thibaut! _À Dieu ne plaise!_ You will not be so wicked. And what makes you think so?” “I am so near heaven.” “Do you mean me? But I burn.” “Kiss me, then, and give me of your fire.” “But, if you were to recover?” “I would return it.” “It is infamous. You presume upon my tenderness, that is all for your cruel wound. Yet I do not think you are much hurt.” “Not now, with your hand upon my heart. Tell me, Carinne--it was Jacques Crépin that brought you here?” “That had me conveyed hither by his deputy, Gusman. It was this morning, after your trial. He had had me released from prison--_le pécheur pénitent_. God had moved him to remorse, it seemed, and some unknown--perhaps one that had overheard us in La Force--to knowledge of our friendship,--yours and mine. He procured me my passport; accompanied me beyond the barrier d’Enfer; committed me to the keeping of this deadman of the quarries. He swore he would play his life against yours--would win you to me here or perish in the attempt. Judge then, you, of my waiting torture--my anguish of expectation in this solitude!”