Part 53 (1/2)

Lecour's heart stopped. His head flushed to bursting, the shame of years overcame him. His a.s.sent was expressed by more a groan than a word. The frightful thought was that she would repulse him for ever.

Yes, that too must be faced and done with--bitterness of bitterness. The old dream so marvellously won by deception must be shattered in every point. The Eternal Justice said to him: ”NO MAN WHO HAS PROFITED BY A WRONG SHALL KEEP ITS FRUITS.” Ah, what fruit of fruits, her love!

”It will finish him with her,” the Admiral muttered, watching him. But Lecour did not hear. The _Sans-culotte_ President rapped on the iron door with his boot, a turnkey replied, and in a few minutes four of these men appeared with Cyrene. As soon as she saw Germain she clasped her hands to her bosom and uttered a strange cry, a cry full of wild gladness and fierce agony, such as a soul writhing in the flames of purgatory might give at a sudden opening of the gates of both heaven and h.e.l.l, and she sprang forward to press him to her breast.

Not such was the will of the Admiral. As quick as she, he interposed himself, and standing in front of Germain grasped her arm and said to her firmly--

”This fellow has something to say to you first.”

Then, turning to Lecour, who stood with head down and feelings worse than those of his condemnation to death--

”Speak, butcher's grandson!”

He withdrew a step to allow Germain to face Cyrene.

The condemned man fell upon his knees and broke into sobs.

”Speak, housekeeper's son!” the Admiral cried exultantly.

”You are a devil!” screamed Cyrene to him, and bent down her arms to Germain.

To her bitter surprise the latter shrank back, and seizing her hand covered it with kisses instead.

”No,” he sobbed, ”no, Madame Baroness; it is all true--I am not your equal. I am baseborn, an impostor, an adventurer, the son of the peasant and the servant, the grandson of the butcher. I am no de Lincy nor Repentigny. My t.i.tles were false, my credit stolen, my position came to me by accident, and my defence was one long falsehood. De Lery was right. In him I wronged a man of honour, and my retribution is the judgment of G.o.d. Forgive me all the awful wrong I have done you. Forgive me as a creature whose only excuse has been an irresistible wors.h.i.+p of even your footsteps.”

”Stop!” the Admiral cried. ”Citizeness, ponder your treatment by this varlet, who has deceived you, besmirched your life, and contaminated your hand. Another career is yours; leave him to his punishment.”

The words of the two men reached her, but their meaning was not credible. Her lover--her Germain, her knight--a deceiver, an impostor?

She could not realise it. Then the truth of the scene rushed over her; its logic became inescapable.

”Oh,” she wailed in one long, agonised moan, sobbing and writhing in the intensity of her torture, ”how can I bear this?”

”Come,” said the Admiral, but she was oblivious to all except the storm of her distress.

”Come,” repeated the Admiral, but she heard not.

”Come,” repeated he once more impatiently; but her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon Germain. The horror of his falsity was strong within her, but his chivalry and tenderness throughout their long a.s.sociation could not be so quickly forgotten, nor the bonds of her affection so instantly blotted out. The mystery of his long sorrow dawned upon her, and his utter self-accusation appealed to her pity. Their differences of rank became as nothing.

”Come away,” said the Admiral again, with soft-uttered persuasiveness.

Cyrene's nature, in those moments, had felt, thought, concluded with lightning swiftness. Her soul swept through a great arc of intuition.

”No, no, there is something I do not understand!” she cried. ”My Germain, G.o.d has made you for me. You loved me and were led astray, but you are honourable and faithful in the sight of heaven, my eternal love.

Let us kiss each other. Let us press each other to our b.r.e.a.s.t.s and die; in a few hours we shall be together for ever.”

Before the Admiral could prevent it they were clasped in a pa.s.sionate, feverish, last embrace.

”Very well,” the Admiral sneered frigidly. ”I keep my promises.