De Joinville watched the scene with curiosity—perhaps with deeper interest; for in his secret soul he disbelieved what his companion has just asserted. There was a perfect simplicity—a clear purity—a frankness—in Francesca's whole demeanour, that no art could have assumed—it was too natural to be adopted. Moreover, his attention was riveted as if on an exquisite picture; the moonlight fell full on her face, which was pale as death, for her emotion was far too strong for confusion; her fine upper lip curled with unutterable scorn, while the blue veins on the temple rose distinct. The large dark eyes seemed filled with light, while her recreant lover cowered beneath their flashing disdain; and yet he was the first to speak.
"My dearest Francesca must forgive what a moment's jealousy—"
"I do indeed forgive," exclaimed she, while a smile of the most entire contempt rested on her beautiful features, "what I despise too much to resent! But as even the most cowardly liar may have his own miserable portion of influence, I owe a formal disavowal to myself." Turning to De Joinville, she continued, "As you have heard so much of this discourse, you may have patience for a moment more. My engagement with Mr.
