His will was not stronger than the general turpitude
of his nature. As if he had divined my thought, he said, "My
will is stronger than any passion that I have; I can never plead
weakness in the day of my judgment. I am deliberate. When I choose
evil it is because I love it. I could be an anchorite; I am, as I
said--what you will."
"You are a conscienceless villain, monsieur."
"Who salves not his soul," he added, with a dry smile, "who will
play his game out as he began; who repents nor ever will repent of
anything; who for him and you some interesting moments yet. Let me
make one now," and he drew from his pocket a packet. He smiled
hatefully as he handed it to me, and said, "Some books which
monsieur once lent Mademoiselle Duvarney--poems, I believe.
Mademoiselle found them yesterday, and desired me to fetch them
to you; and I obliged her. I had the pleasure of glancing through
the books before she rolled them up. She bade me say that monsieur
might find them useful in his captivity. She has a tender
heart--even to the worst of criminals."
I felt a strange churning in my throat, but with composure I
took the books, and said, "Mademoiselle Duvarney chooses
distinguished messengers.
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