nly looked
inquiringly at her, and she continued "My husband used you ill, but he
is no interloper. He took what the law gave him, what has been in his
family for over two hundred years. Monsieur, it has meant more to him
than a hundred times greater honour could to you. When his trouble
came, when--" she paused, as though it was difficult to speak--"when the
other--legacy--of his family descended on him, that Seigneury became to
him the one compensation of his life. By right of it only could he look
the world in the face--or me."

She stopped suddenly, for her voice choked her. "Will you please
continue?" said Fournel, opening and shutting the will in his hand, and
looking at her with a curious new consideration.

"Fame came to me as his trouble came to him. It was hard for him to go
among men, but, ah, can you think how he dreaded the day when I should
return to Pontiac!... I will tell you the whole truth, Monsieur." She
drew herself up proudly. "I loved--Louis. He came into my heart with its
first great dream, and before life--the business of life--really began.
He was one with the best part of me, the girlhood in me which is dead."

Fournel rose and in a low voice said: "Will you not sit down?" He
motioned to a chair.

She shook her head. "Ah no, please! Let me say all quickly and while I
have the courage. I loved him, and he loved and loves me. I love
that love in which I married him, and I love his love for me. It is
indestructible, because it is in the fibre of my life. It has nothing
to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune or misfortune, or shame or
happiness, or sin or holiness. When it becomes part of us, it must go on
in one form or another, but it cannot die. It lives in breath and song
and thought and work and words. That is the wonder of it, the pity of
it, and the joy of it. Because it is so, because love would shield the
beloved from itself if need be, and from all the terrors of the world at
any cost, I have done what I have done. I did it at cost of my honour,
but it was for his sake; at the price of my peace, but to spare him.
Ah, Monsieur, the days of life are not many for him: his shame and his
futile aims are killing him. The clouds will soon close over, and his
vexed brain and body will be still. To spare him the last turn of the
wheel of torture, to give him the one bare honour left him yet a little
while, I have given up my work of life to comfort him. I concealed, I
stole, if you will, th