Heaven preserve me from the horrors of such another drive. At every jolt and rumble of the phaeton I felt as though I were being torn apart upon a rack. My moans made such hideous music for the road, that often we were stopped by travellers with courteous questions of my state. Marion addressed me several times with the same request: "For God's sake, monsieur, let me give you an injection of morphia. It will ease your pain!"
"Better the pain," was my invariable response. "Better the pain!"
"How you hate me," she would cry. "How you hate me!"
Sometimes I felt her shiver, but not often, for I kept as closely to my corner as I could, and if by chance she touched me, curses trembled to my lips which I had work to stifle.
We drove so slowly that morning had already dawned before we reached the outskirts of the city. We stopped then at an inn, where Beudant's shouts procured a flask of spirits, which I drank to drug my suffering. Afterwards I did not groan, for though the brandy scarcely eased my pain, it gave me strength to smother its expression.
Marion put away her pistol soon, for the road was full of vehicles, and Beudant was no longer to be feared. The girl's face in the early morning light was pitifully lined and haggard. I watched her, but she kept her gaze set straight before, as though conscious of my stern regard. Every now and then too, she caught her breath, and shuddered as though she were remembering. Our silence lasted until we came to Notting Hill, when I became aware of a certain chilling curiosity concerning her.
"Now that you have broken with your friends," I muttered suddenly, "what will you do?"
She did not move, yet she answered at once in tones of deep humility. "Whatever you wish, monsieur!"
"Whatever I wish," I sneered. "What has my wish to do with you?"
She turned her head and looked into my eyes. "I have used you very ill, monsieur! I would make atonement, though, if you will let me!"
"You conceive then that you owe me extraordinary reparation?"
"The greatest possible," she answered very softly.
I knew then that I loved her still, in spite of better cause for hate than love; but so deep was my bitterness and sense of injury against her, that I felt perfectly incapable of magnanimity.