| 768 | 769 | 770 | 771 | 772 |
| 1 | 236 | 472 | 708 | 944 |
|
said Fermain Lord Clancharlie, hitherto called Gwynplaine, shall be your
husband, and that you shall marry him. Such is our royal pleasure."
While Gwynplaine, in tremulous tones which varied at almost every word,
was reading the document, the duchess, half risen from the couch,
listened with fixed attention. When Gwynplaine finished, she snatched
the letter from his hands.
"Anne R," she murmured in a tone of abstraction. Then picking up from
the floor the parchment she had thrown down, she ran her eye over it. It
was the confession of the shipwrecked crew of the Matutina, embodied
in a report signed by the sheriff of Southwark and by the lord
chancellor.
Having perused the report, she read the queen's letter over again. Then
she said, "Be it so." And calmly pointing with her finger to the door of
the gallery through which he had entered, she added, "Begone."
Gwynplaine was petrified, and remained immovable. She repeated, in icy
tones, "Since you are my husband, begone." Gwynplaine, speechless, and
with eyes downcast like a criminal, remained motionless. She added, "You
have no right to be here; it is my lover's place." Gwynplaine was like a
man transfixed. "Very well," said she; "I must go myself. So you are my
husband. Nothing can be better. I hate you." She rose, and with an
indescribably haughty gesture of adieu left the room. The curtain in the
doorway of the gallery fell behind her.
770
Page
Quick Jump
|