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Updated: May 12, 2025
I charged you with deliberately conspiring against my King and my country all the while that you were eating bread and salt at my table. I charged you with striving to render assistance to that Corsican usurper whom may the great God punish, and you yourself practically owned to this before you left my house." "This I did not, M. le Comte," broke in Clyffurde hotly.
A few moments before, Clyffurde had made his way to the small boudoir in search of fresh air, and had withdrawn to a window embrasure away from a throng that maddened him in his misery of loneliness: then he realised that Crystal was sitting quite close to him, that St.
Clyffurde, who was walking faster than they did, was just deliberating in his mind whether he would turn back and go home some other way or charge this unpleasant obstruction from the rear and risk the consequences, when he noticed two figures still further on ahead walking in the same direction as he himself and the rowdy crowd.
He remembered every trait in de Marmont's face, every inflexion of his voice as he said with almost cruel cynicism: "She will learn to love me in time." That, Clyffurde knew now, Crystal de Cambray would never do.
She took her father's arm and made a movement to go: instinctively Clyffurde tried to stop her: at her words he had flushed with anger to the very roots of his hair. The injustice of her accusation maddened him, but the bitter resentment in the tone of her voice, the look of passionate hatred with which she regarded him as she spoke, positively appalled him.
When he ceases to think of himself, he loses his bearings, flounders in a quagmire of unprofitable heroism which benefits no one, and generally behaves like a fool." "Did I do all that?" asked Clyffurde with a smile.
Clyffurde, our English friend," broke in Madame tartly, "who robbed us on the broad highway. I suspected it all along." "You suspected it, ma tante, and said nothing?" asked the girl, who obviously had not taken in the full significance of Maurice's statement.
Genis and she believed in him, and he, Clyffurde, who loved her with every fibre of his being, with all the passionate ardour of his lonely heart, could serve her no better than by accepting this awful humiliation which she put upon him. If he could have justified himself now, he would not have done it, not while she loved St. Genis, and he Clyffurde was less than nothing to her.
And Clyffurde was left in utter loneliness with only a vague, foolish longing in his heart the longing that one day she might have her wish, and might have the power to wound him to death bodily just as she had wounded him to the depth of his soul to-night. For the rest there was nothing more for him to do in France.
But so absorbed were these two in their conversation and their joy that they failed to notice that Clyffurde hardly touched the excellent déjeuner set before him and left mine host's fine Burgundy almost untasted.
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