They had sat down
together in the dark, and after some uneasy conversation, Vere,
perhaps eager to make things easier between herself and "Monsieur
Emile," had brought up the subject of her poems with a sort of anxious
simplicity, and a touch of timidity that yet was confidential. And
Artois, still recoiling secretly from that which might possibly have
become a folly but could never have been anything more, had told Vere
plainly and almost sternly that she must go to her literary path
unaided, unadvised by him.
"I was glad to advise you at the beginning, Vere," he had said,
finally; "but now I must leave you to yourself to work out your own
salvation. You have talent. Trust it. Trust yourself. Do no lean on
any one, least of all on me."
"No, Monsieur Emile," she had answered.
Those were the last words exchanged between them before Hermione came
and questioned Vere. And only when Vere slipped into the house,
leaving that sound of pain behind her, did Artois realize how cruel he
must have seemed in his desire quickly to set things right.
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