And so M. de Kercadiou perceived.
"My God!" was all that he said, scarcely above his breath, yet
almost in a groan.
M. de La Tour d'Azyr did, as always, the thing that sensibility
demanded of him. He took his leave. He understood that to linger
where his news had produced such an effect would be impossible,
indecent. So he departed, in a bitterness comparable only with
his erstwhile optimism, the sweet fruit of hope turned to a thing
of gall even as it touched his lips. Oh, yes; the last word,
indeed, was with Andre-Louis Moreau - always!
Uncle and niece looked at each other as he passed out, and there
was horror in the eyes of both. Aline's pallor was deathly almost,
and standing there now she wrung her hands as if in pain.
"Why did you not ask him - beg him... " She broke off.
"To what end? He was in the right, and... and there are things
one cannot ask; things it would be a useless humiliation to ask."
He sat down, groaning. "Oh, the poor boy - the poor, misguided boy."
In the mind of neither, you see, was there any doubt of what must
be the issue.
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