She still remembered the way he looked the night he
surprised her leaving Julio's home. His was the passion that kills, and,
nevertheless, he had not attempted the least violence with her. . . .
The memory of his consideration was awakening in Marguerite a sentiment
of gratitude. Perhaps he had loved her as no other man had.
Her eyes, with an irresistible desire for comparison, sought Julio's,
admiring his youthful grace and distinction. The image of Laurier, heavy
and ordinary, came into her mind as a consolation. Certainly the officer
whom she had seen at the station when saying good-bye to her brother,
did not seem to her like her old husband. But Marguerite wished to
forget the pallid lieutenant with the sad countenance who had passed
before her eyes, preferring to remember him only as the manufacturer
preoccupied with profits and incapable of comprehending what she was
accustomed to call "the delicate refinements of a chic woman." Decidedly
Julio was the more fascinating. She did not repent of her past. She did
not wish to repent of it.
And her loving selfishness made her repeat once more the same old
exclamation--"How fortunate that you are a foreigner! . . . What a
relief to know that you are safe from the dangers of war!"
Julio felt the usual exasperation at hearing this. He came very near to
closing his beloved's mouth with his hand.
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