Like a living thing it painted another picture
for him. For a space he lost his own identity. He saw himself in
the place of St. Pierre. He was the husband of Marie-Anne,
worshipping her even as St. Pierre must worship her, and he came,
as St. Pierre had come, to find a stranger in his home, a stranger
who had lain in his bed, a stranger whom his wife had nursed back
to life, a stranger who had fallen in love with his most
inviolable possession, who had told her of his love, who had
kissed her, who had held her close, in his arms, whose presence
had brought a warmer flush and a brighter glow into eyes and
cheeks that until this stranger's coming had belonged only to him.
And he heard her, as St. Pierre had heard her, pleading with him
to keep this man from harm; he heard her soft voice, telling of
the things that had passed between them, and he saw in her eyes--
With almost a cry he swept the thought and the picture from him.
It was an atrocious thing to conceive, impossible of reality. And
yet the truth would not go. What would he have done in St.
Pierre's place?
He went to the window again. Yes, St. Pierre was a bigger man than
he.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223