She remained standing perfectly still, searching me with a gaze
that left me naked of levity and cynicism and the veneer of life;
and finally she murmured in a voice sweet with pain:
"Must you kill me with words, Paul? I did not mean that--now. It
is too late."
Then she turned swiftly and called to Harry, who came running
over to her only to meet with some trivial request, and a minute
later the arriero announced dinner.
I suppose that the incident had passed with her, as it had with
me; little did I know how deeply I had wounded her. And when I
discovered my mistake, some time later and under very different
circumstances, it very nearly cost me my life, and Harry's into
the bargain.
During the meal Le Mire was in the jolliest of moods apparently.
She retold the tale of Balzac's heroine who crossed the Andes in
the guise of a Spanish officer, performing wondrous exploits with
her sword and creating havoc among the hearts of the fair ladies
who took the dashing captain's sex for granted from his clothing.
The story was a source of intense amusement to Harry, who
insisted on the recital of detail after detail, until Desiree
allowed her memory to take a vacation and substitute pure
imagination.
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