"Do not turn from him, Marie," said her sister-in-law. "You will soon
want his strong arm, and his kind, loving heart."
"Charles will not desert me, Victorine," said Marie, blushing now more
beautifully than ever, for though she knew that Henri loved her, he had
never absolutely told her so. "Though you are his dearest care, he will
always have a hand to stretch to his poor Marie."
Before she had finished speaking, Henri held her close in his embrace.
It was perhaps hardly a fitting time for him to make an avowal of his
love; but lovers cannot always choose the most proper season for their
confessions. He was still hot from the battle which he had fought; his
hands were still black with powder; the well-known red scarf was still
twisted round his belt, and held within its folds his armament of
pistols. His fair, long hair was uncombed, and even entangled with his
exertions. His large boots were covered with dust, and all his clothes
were stained and soiled with the grass and weeds through which he had
that night dragged himself more than once, in order to place himself
within pistol-shot of his enemies; and yet, soiled and hot as he was,
fatigued with one battle, and meditating preparations for another,
there, in the presence of de Lescure and his wife, he clasped Marie to
his manly heart, and swore to her that his chief anxiety as long as the
war lasted, should be to screen her from all harm, and that his fondest
care through his whole life should be to protect her and make her happy.
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