"Alas, can I do nothing to help you?" she said, looking up.
"Madam," replied Denis, with a fine irrelevancy, "if I have said
anything to wound you, believe me, it was for your own sake and not
for mine."
She thanked him with a tearful look.
"I feel your position cruelly," he went on. "The world has been
bitter hard on you. Your uncle is a disgrace to mankind. Believe
me, madam, there is no young gentleman in all France but would be
glad of my opportunity, to die in doing you a momentary service."
"I know already that you can be very brave and generous," she
answered. "What I WANT to know is whether I can serve you - now or
afterwards," she added, with a quaver.
"Most certainly," he answered with a smile. "Let me sit beside you
as if I were a friend, instead of a foolish intruder; try to forget
how awkwardly we are placed to one another; make my last moments go
pleasantly; and you will do me the chief service possible."
"You are very gallant," she added, with a yet deeper sadness . . .
"very gallant . . . and it somehow pains me. But draw nearer, if
you please; and if you find anything to say to me, you will at
least make certain of a very friendly listener. Ah! Monsieur de
Beaulieu," she broke forth - "ah! Monsieur de Beaulieu, how can I
look you in the face?" And she fell to weeping again with a
renewed effusion.
"Madam," said Denis, taking her hand in both of his, "reflect on
the little time I have before me, and the great bitterness into
which I am cast by the sight of your distress.
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