"Let us not talk of
it. I see that you are here, and I thank God. But I cannot yet bring
myself to ask what you have been through. I cannot face the horror of
it for you. I beg you to understand."
But it was I who did not understand when she drew away. "As you will,"
she agreed, and there was pride in her great eyes, but there was a
wound as well. "Yet why," she went on, "should a knowledge of human
tragedy harden a woman? It strengthens a man. But enough. Monsieur,
have you heard--the lady of the miniature is at Montreal?"
I was slow, for I was wondering how I had vexed her. "You never saw
the miniature," I parried. "How can you connect a name with it,
madame?"
She looked at me calmly. I hated her silk gown that shone like a
breastplate between us. She brushed away my evasion.
"It is well known that you carried Madame Bertheau's miniature. You
were an ardent suitor, monsieur."
Yes, I had been an ardent suitor. I remembered it with amaze. My
tongue had not been clogged and middle-aged, in those blithe days, and
yet those days were only two years gone. With this woman even Pierre
had better speech at his command.
"Madame, who told you this?"
"Monsieur, the tale is common property in Paris.
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