"Monsieur," she whispered. "I understand so much more than you
realize. Listen. You will listen? Monsieur, until now you have
always laughed. You have been gay,--gay at all times. Yet, through it
all I have seen--I have always seen--your terrible power of
self-crucifixion. Oh, I have seen it; I have feared it; I have loved
it! I have tried to get away from it. But always I have been
conscious of it. It is you. It has ruled all your dealings with me.
Else why did you take me with you? Why did you marry me? So in this
matter. You knew that the safety of the west, and of the Indians who
trusted you, lay in attacking this camp. I knew that you would attack
it. Monsieur, monsieur, now will you touch my hand?"
I stepped back. "You cannot want to touch my hand. Madame, you do not
know what you are saying."
But she did not move. "Monsieur, will you never believe that I
understand?"
I could not answer. I turned from her. The air was black. I seized
her fur cloak which lay on the couch and pressed it in my hands. I
knew that my breath rattled in groans like a dying man's. If I had
tried to speak I should have snatched her to me. I held fast to the
table. I had no thought of what she was thinking.
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