Part 8 (2/2)
”Those were the tactics the Russians used against Napoleon.”
”Coldness was their chief weapon,” Marion replied, ”and you certainly are well armed with it.”
”You forget the fire at Russia's heart.”
”Was it not the fire of hate?” she asked.
”No,” he said. ”The fire of the heart is love, and hate is but its ashes.” His voice had softened as he spoke, and Marion felt that his eyes were scanning her thoughts; she turned her head away, but her eyes were drawn slowly back until they for a moment met his glance. The knowledge that anyone could so influence her frightened her; but it was a fascinating fear which tempted investigation. She was about to reply when she became conscious of the presence of others; they were departing guests, who announced a breaking up of the party, and Marion was obliged to exchange conventional civilities with her friends until the room was slowly emptied. Harold had hurried away alone, without even a word with Florence. The poor fellow had not the heart to speak to her again that night, and he felt that she would understand the reason for his rudeness. Duncan was thus left to his own resources, and, seeing that Roswell Sanderson and Florence had gone into the library, and that all the guests had departed, he made the conventional move to leave.
”Don't hurry,” said Marion, ”it is only eleven o'clock, and you see I am left quite alone.”
”I will remain,” replied Duncan, as he took a seat beside her on a dainty _Louis Seize_ sofa, ”because I have a favor to ask.”
”A favor of an enemy,” said Marion, with an air of astonishment.
”Yes,” he answered. ”Like the Spartans I cannot fight when the omens are unpropitious, so I wish to beg the favor of a truce and to ask that during it the hostiles may dance the Patricians' cotillon together.”
”A dance of hostiles would be a war dance, would it not?”
”War is a cruel word,” he replied. ”To me the dance is symbolic of the highest sentiment.”
”That is religion, is it not?” she asked, laughingly.
”No; a higher sentiment than religion is love.”
”Of that there are many kinds.”
”There is but one kind,” he answered. ”Other feelings may receive that name, but they are base alloys of the pure sentiment.”
”And what is this perfect love of which you seem to know so much?”
”It is the irresistible union of two similar natures.”
”Why irresistible?” Marion asked.
”Because all organism is a union of limitless atoms, which are brought together out of chaos by the attraction of similarity.”
”That is a novel theory, but what has it to do with love?” she questioned.
”Love is the idealization of that theory. Man and woman are the most perfect blending of the atoms, and love is the transcendent union of their two natures.”
”And is there no creator?” Marion asked.
”None but love. Love is the symbolism of the creative power; love is G.o.d.”
Marion laughed; his theory was too absurd to be taken seriously, but somehow it pleased her. ”Have you felt this irresistible love power?”
she asked.
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