You may imagine whether I
feel any better now."
Valentin moaned gaspingly, as if his wound were throbbing. "Broken
faith, broken faith!" he murmured. "And my sister--my sister?"
"Your sister is very unhappy; she has consented to give me up. I don't
know why. I don't know what they have done to her; it must be something
pretty bad. In justice to her you ought to know it. They have made
her suffer. I haven't seen her alone, but only before them! We had an
interview yesterday morning. They came out, flat, in so many words. They
told me to go about my business. It seems to me a very bad case. I'm
angry, I'm sore, I'm sick."
Valentin lay there staring, with his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his
lips soundlessly parted, and a flush of color in his pale face. Newman
had never before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now,
in speaking to Valentin in the poor fellow's extremity, he had a feeling
that he was making his complaint somewhere within the presence of the
power that men pray to in trouble; he felt his outgush of resentment as
a sort of spiritual privilege.
"And Claire,"--said Bellegarde,--"Claire? She has given you up?"
"I don't really believe it," said Newman.
"No. Don't believe it, don't believe it. She is gaining time; excuse
her."
"I pity her!" said Newman.
Pages:
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410