I don't know why I should tell you this--except that I've
told you every thing else, and this may save you from some of the wrong
the rest has done you. But the most of it must remain irreparable." A
long sigh quivered up from Sophie's heart, and quivered down again, like
a pebble sinking through the water. Such a sigh, in a woman, is the sign
of what can scarcely come twice in a lifetime.
"I don't understand any thing about that; I don't want to!" exclaimed
Bressant, with an impetuous gesture. "What you've done seems to have
been better than what you meant to do, at any rate. You've made yourself
every thing to me. Say that I am as much to you, and what more do we
need? Say it! say it!" and, in the vehemence of his appeal, the sick man
half raised himself from his bed.
"I cannot! I cannot!" said Sophie, in a low, penetrating voice of
suffering. "If you were the lowest of all men, I could not. I came to
you in the guise of an angel, and what I have done, what woman is there
that would not blush at it? It may not be too late to save you--"
"Stop!" cried Bressant, with an accent of hoarse, masculine command,
such as she could not gainsay. "It is too late!--I will not be saved!
Look in my eyes, Sophie Valeyon, and tell me the name of what you see
there!"
Her sad, gray eyes, stern to herself, but tender and soft to him, as a
cloud ready to melt in rain-drops, met his, which were alight with all
the fire that an aroused and passionate spirit could kindle in them.
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