Forget that foolish crown; forget even Corsica! Soon we will
take the diamond and cross the mountains together, to a kingdom
better than Corsica. There," I wound up, forcing myself to speak
lightly, "if ever dispute should arise between us, as king and queen
we will ask my uncle Gervase to decide. He, gallant man, will say,
'Prosper, to whom do you owe your life?' . . ."
"The mountains? Ah, not yet--not yet!" She put out her hands and
crept to me blindly, nestling, pressing her face against my ragged
coat. "A little while," she sobbed while I held her so. "A little
while!--until the child--until our child--"
How can I write what yet remains to be written?
Our child was never born. So often, hand in hand, we had climbed to
the pine-woods that it escaped my notice how she, who had used to be
my support, came by degrees to lean on my arm. I saw her broken by
fasting and vigil, and for me, I winced at the sound of her cough.
The blood on her handkerchief accused me. "But we must wait until
the child is born," I promised myself, "and the mountain air will
quickly cure her.
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