"I will write," he said at last, "I cannot at this moment fix the
time, but I will not fail to give you notice. A riverderci!
Benedicite!"
And he left her abruptly at the gates, walking rapidly in the
direction of the Vatican. Full of vague perplexities to which she
could give no name, Sylvie went homewards slowly, and as she entered
her rooms, and responded to the affectionate morning greetings of
Madame Bozier, she was conscious of a sudden depression that stole
over her bright soul like a dark cloud on a sunny day, and made her
feel chilled and sad. Turning over the numerous letters that waited
her perusal, she recognised the handwriting of the Marquis
Fontenelle on one, and took it up with a strange uneasy dread and
beating of the heart. She read it twice through, before entirely
grasping its meaning, and then--as she realised that the man who had
caused her so much pain and shame by his lawless and reckless
pursuit of her in the character of a libertine, was now, with a
frank confession of his total unworthiness, asking her to be his
wife,--the tears rushed to her eyes, and a faint cry broke from her
lips.
"Oh, I cannot . . . I cannot!" she murmured, "Not now--not now!"
Madame Bozier looked at her in distress and amazement.
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