"
"May I ask who told you, madame?"
"My cousin, monsieur."
"I thought so."
She looked at me fairly, almost sadly, as if she begged to read my
mind. "Monsieur, why should you regret my knowing? It is to your
credit that you admire Madame Bertheau. They tell me that she is a
woman formed for love, beautiful, childlike, untouched by knowledge of
crime or hardship. Monsieur, forgive me. Are you willing---- May I
see the miniature?"
The transition in my thought was so abrupt that I clapped my hand to my
pocket as if it were still there.
"It--I am not carrying the miniature."
"Did--did the Indians take it from you?"
I stepped nearer. "Madame de Montlivet, what right have I to be
carrying another woman's miniature? I shall write the fact of my
marriage to Madame Bertheau, and the matter will be closed. No, the
Indians did not take the miniature. I buried it in the woods."
"Monsieur, that was not necessary!"
"I thought that it was, madame."
She stood with a chair between us. "Monsieur," she said, with her eyes
down, "I wish that I had known. It was not necessary. Did you bury
the miniature when you married me?"
I put the chair aside and stood over her. "No, madame, I did not bury
the miniature the day we were married.
Pages:
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326