If she loves you and prays for you now, you have stolen that love
and that prayer. You are a thief. A true daughter of France could
never love a coward to-day."
"I know, I know," sobbed Pierre, burying his face in the weeds.
"Yet I did it partly for her, and I could not do otherwise."
"Very little for her, and a hundred times for yourself," said
the priest indignantly. "Be honest. If there was a little bit of
love for her, it was the kind of love she did not want. She would
spit upon it. If you are going to Switzerland now you are leaving
her forever. You can never go back to Josephine again. You are a
deserter. She would cast you out, coward!"
The broken soldier lay very still, almost as if he were dead. Then
he rose slowly to his feet, with a pale, set face. He put his hand
behind his back and drew out a revolver. "It is true," he said
slowly, "I am a coward. But not altogether such a coward as you
think, Father. It is not merely death that I fear. I could face
that, I think. Here, take this pistol and shoot me now! No one
will know.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104