IV
The paths were too rough for Fernande to attempt to go back shoeless to the château, so she waited in the porch, leaning against the pillar, in the same attitude wherein she had received de Maurel's final clumsy farewell; she waited with her own triumphal thoughts for company, for close on half an hour, when she suddenly spied Laurent walking briskly down the drive toward the Lodge.
She called to him and he uttered a cry of obvious relief.
"We were all getting so anxious," he shouted breathlessly, as soon as he was near enough to make himself heard. "It is nearly eleven o'clock. Matthieu said that he saw you walking through the orchard soon after daybreak. Where have you been, Fernande?"
"I went for a walk in the woods," she replied simply; "incidentally I sprained my ankle. Look!" she added, holding up her skirt and pointing her bare foot at him.
"Ye gods!"
"You are quite right there, Laurent," she said earnestly, "the gods had much to do with my sprained ankle. In fact, they have been busy with me all the morning."
"What do you mean?"
"I will tell you what I mean, as soon as I have a stocking and a shoe upon this foot—and not before. So if you are devoured with curiosity, my dear cousin, I pray you find Annette and tell her to bring me the wherewithal to clothe my injured foot with decency. It is getting blue with cold."
"Yes, yes!" he retorted. "I'll go immediately; but do tell me first, I entreat...."
"I'll tell you nothing till my foot is clad," she responded firmly.
Now Laurent de Mortain was pastmaster in the knowledge of feminine moods and caprices, wherein his elder brother was so woefully ignorant. He did not stop to argue the point. That something unusual had happened, besides the sprained ankle, was, of course, plainly writ on Fernande's glowing cheeks and in her glittering eyes; but that she did not mean to tell him anything about it for the present was equally plainly marked round the lines of her obstinate little mouth. Therefore, Laurent, with a shrug of his shoulders and a muttered: "As you will!" at once turned on his heel and walked rapidly back towards the château in obedience to his lady's commands.
And Fernande was once more left alone in the porch of the Lodge, gazing after the retreating figure of a man. In this instance she could watch an elegant and graceful retreat—a springy gait, the knightly bearing of a well-groomed head. She could not help but compare the two brothers, greatly to the advantage of Laurent—vastly to the detriment of the uncouth creature whose stained and shabby blouse had soiled her white gown.
"I said that the bear would soon be dancing to my piping," she mused, "and he is standing on his hind legs now, ready to begin...."
"But," she added, and here her thoughts became confused and unruly, "the bear would not have gone to fetch Annette; he would have put his great strong arms round me and carried me to the château. And oh! how I should have hated him for it!" she concluded, with a little shudder as she smoothed out the creases in her muslin gown.