and kindly to him, glancing only at the madness
which brought him to his sad state, and imploring him to summon his
resolution and conquer his sickness for his friends' sake at home in
France, and for the sake of her brother, who loved him.

"There is nobody who loves me," said the marquis, petulantly; and when
Osra cried out at this, he went on: "For the love of those whom I do
not love is nothing to me, and the only soul alive I love--" There he
stopped, but his eyes, fixed on Osra's face, ended the sentence for
him. And she blushed, and looked away. Then, thinking the moment
had come, he burst suddenly into a flood of protestations and
self-reproach, cursing himself for a fool and a presumptuous madman,
pitifully craving her pardon, and declaring that he did not deserve
her kindness, and yet that he could not live without it, and that
anyhow he would be dead soon and thus cease to trouble her. But she,
being thus passionately assailed, showed such sweet tenderness and
compassion and pity that Monsieur de Merosailles came very near to
forgetting that he was playing a comedy, and threw himself into his
part with eagerness, redoubling his vehemence, and feeling now full
half of what he said. For the princess was to his eyes far more
beautiful in her softer mood. Yet he remembered his wager, and at
last, when she was nearly in tears, and ready, as it seemed, to do
anything to give him comfort, he cried desperately:

"Ah, leave me, leave me! Leave me to die alone! Yet for pity's sake,
before you go, and before I die, give me your forgiveness, and let
your lips touch my forehead in token of it! And then I shall die in
peace."

At that the princess blushed still more, and her eyes were dim and
shone; for she was very deeply touched at his misery and at the sad
prospect of the death of so gallant a gentleman for love. Thus she
could scarcely speak for emotion; and the marquis, seeing her emotion,
was himself much affected; and she rose from her chair and bent over
him, and whispered comfort to him. Then she leant down, and very
lightly touched his forehead with her lips; and he felt her eyelashes,
that were wet with her tears, brush the skin of his forehead; and then
she sobbed, and covered her face with her hands. Indeed, his state
seemed to her most pitiful.

Thus Monsieur de Merosailles had won one of his three kisses; yet,
strange to tell, there was no triumph in him, but he now perceived
the baseness of his device;