She would, he knew, with the abandon of an absorbing
passion, throw all things away for him.
Such as Madame Chalice--ah, she was a part of this brave fantasy, this
dream of empire, this inspiring play! But Elise Malboir was life itself,
absolute, true, abiding. His nature swam gloriously in his daring
exploit; he believed in it, he sank himself in it with a joyous
recklessness; it was his victory or his doom. But it was a shake of the
dice--had Fate loaded them against him?
He looked up the hill towards the Manor. Life was there in its essence;
beauty, talent, the genius of the dreamer, like his own. But it was not
for him; dauphin or fool, it was not for him! Madame Chalice was
his friendly inquisitor, not his enemy; she endured him for some talent
he had shown, for the apparent sincerity of his love for the cause; but
that was all. Yet she was ever in this dream of his, and he felt that
she would always be; the unattainable, the undeserved, more splendid than
his cause itself--the cause for which he would give--what would he give?
Time would show.
But Elise Malboir, abundant, true, fine, in the healthy vigour of her
nature, with no dream in her heart but love fulfilled--she was no part of
his adventure, but of that vital spirit which can bring to the humblest
as to the highest the good reality of life.
CHAPTER XI
It was the poignancy of these feelings which, later, drew Valmond to
the ashes of the fire in whose glow Elise had stood.
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