"Perhaps so, René, but I wanted so much to be near you. Do not heed my seeming coldness of the last few days. How could I fail in mourning for that innocent, noble man,--victim of low intrigues and his own loyalty? He typifies the people, the people sacrificed to the classes." "I have been jealous of your devotion, your gratitude. I have longed to be the dead. Had I died, what should you have done?" "Died with you, René." He stooped and kissed her eyes, holding her close in his arms. Chapter VII THE INTERVIEW On reaching the appointed place, the Duchess fell upon a garden seat, seemingly very tired. Taking a lace handkerchief from the reticule which hung at her wrist, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She consulted the watch at her belt and found it lacked ten minutes of the time set. She sighed, resigning herself to wait. At last she heard the approach of footsteps; some moments later a man with uncovered head stood before her. Marie Thérèse de Bourbon uttered no cry. She was stricken dumb. After so many years, she beheld standing before her against the crimson background of the sky, which looked like a nimbus of blood, the Past, the terrible, tragic Past. It surged again to overwhelm her, that Past, the sorrows of which seemed to have been calmed by time; the terrors of the prison; the flaring up of frail hopes destined to be dashed to earth; the incertitude of the fate of loved ones; ardent prayers to heaven to work miracles; entreaties; outrages; infinite despair: all these rose again out of that terrible Past and stood before her. She could not speak; she could scarcely see; but she felt hot tears through her silk skirt and trembling arms clasp her knees while a heart-rending voice cried: "Marie Thérèse! Marie Thérèse!" "Rise," she said at last, almost inaudibly. "Be seated." He staggered to the stone bench beside her. She averted her head in order to avoid seeing his grief-stricken face. A silence followed which the lady at last broke: "You perceive, Sir, that I have complied with your request. What do you wish?" "To remind you that I am your brother, the brother whom your mother bore." "My brother--died," she faltered. "He lives and speaks to you. Dare you look upon me and deny it? I carry on my face the marks of royal baptism and of prison torture." "My God!" she groaned. "Why do you not acknowledge me?" he cried with waxing indignation. "I believed that on receiving me you would take me to your heart. I thought you felt the great thirst that devours me. I thought that you and I should mourn our mother in each other's arms. Why did you receive me, if you had already decided to treat me as an impostor? Are you about to turn me out of your palace gates along with the dogs and beggars? After all that I have suffered?" Making a terrible effort, she said: "You have spoken of proofs, irrefutable proofs."