Women -- France -- Fiction; Women's rights -- Fiction
“Oh, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “he is drunk! Bernard! Bernard! remember
what you promised; do not break your word. You have not forgotten, have
you, that I am your kinswoman, your sister?”
“You are my mistress or my wife,” I answered, still pursuing her.
“You are a contemptible creature!” she rejoined, repulsing me with her
riding whip. “What have you done that I should be aught to you? Have you
helped my father?”
“I swore to help him; and I would have helped him if he had been there;
it is just the same, therefore, as if I really had. But, had he been
there, and had I tried to save him and failed, do you know that for
this treachery Roche-Mauprat could not have provided any instrument of
torture cruel enough and slow enough to drag the life out of me inch by
inch? For all I know, they may actually have heard my vow; I proclaimed
it loudly enough. But what do I care? I set little store by a couple of
days more or less of life. But I do set some store by your favour, my
beauty. I don’t want to be the languishing knight that every one laughs
at. Come, now, love me at once; or, my word, I will return to the fight,
and if I am killed, so much the worse for you. You will no longer have
a knight to help you, and you will still have seven Mauprats to keep at
bay. I’m afraid you are not strong enough for that rough work, my pretty
little love-bird.”
These words, which I threw out at random, merely to distract her
attention so that I might seize her hands or her waist, made a deep
impression on her. She fled to the other end of the hall, and tried
to force open the window; but her little hands could not even move the
heavy leaden sash in the rusty ironwork. Her efforts made me laugh. She
clasped her hands in terror, and remained motionless. Then all at once
the expression of her face changed. She seemed to have resolved how to
act, and came toward me smiling and with outstretched hand. So beautiful
was she thus that a mist came over my eyes and for a moment I saw her
not.
Ah, gentlemen, forgive my childishness. I must tell you how she was
dressed. After that weird night she never wore that costume again, and
yet I can remember it so exactly. It is a long, long time ago. But were
I to live as long as I have already lived again, I should not forget
a single detail, so much was I struck by it amid the tumult that
was raging within me and without; amid the din of shots striking
the ramparts, the lightning flashes ripping the sky, and the violent
palpitations which sent my blood surging from my heart to my brain, and
from my head to my breast.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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