She sank prostrate at last, in the
abandonment of despair, calling upon God to put an end to her
miserable life.
Bigot raised her from the floor, with words of pity and sympathy.
She turned on him a look of gratitude which, had he been of stone,
he must have felt. But Bigot's words meant less than she fancied.
He was still too intoxicated to reflect, or to feel shame of his
present errand.
"Caroline!" said he, "what do you here? This is the time to make
merry--not to pray! The honorable company in the great hall desire
to pay their respects to the lady of Beaumanoir--come with me!"
He drew her hand through his arm with a courtly grace that seldom
forsook him, even in his worst moments. Caroline looked at him
in a dazed manner, not comprehending his request. "Go with you,
Francois? You know I will, but where?"
"To the great hall," repeated he; "my worthy guests desire to see
you, and to pay their respects to the fair lady of Beaumanoir."
It flashed upon her mind what he wanted. Her womanly pride was
outraged as it had never been before; she withdrew her hand from his
arm with shame and terror stamped on every feature.
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