(9)
"Oh, my dear fellow," cried Laurent, bursting rather unceremoniously into his friend's bedroom, "what a divine creature your mare is! To-day's was the best gallop I have ever had. It is a thousand shames that you yourself—— What on earth are you doing, Aymar?"
For in the middle of the room, with his back to him, Aymar was on his knees before a little portmanteau. He did not look up, and for a moment did not answer, but folded and refolded a coat which had previously been lying in a huddle in the valise.
"I am going away," he said at length.
"Going away!" repeated Laurent, stupefied. "Now? Not to-day, surely! And where? . . . Aymar!"
He came towards him with the intention of putting a hand on his shoulder, but before he reached him Aymar had risen and was at the window. Standing there, still with his back to him, he said very low, "Everything has gone now, Laurent—everything."
The breeze fluttered the curtain, and except for that there was silence. But the hopeless pain in his voice seemed to go on vibrating after he had spoken.
"Who has told her?" asked Laurent after a long pause.
"Eulalie. She had got it out of Vaubernier after all."
"And she—Mme de Villecresne?" But there seemed no way in which the question could be put. Its answer indeed was the little valise gaping on the floor.
Aymar turned round. "Mme de Morsan did it deliberately, from malice, in the worst way she could. And the shock . . . I tried to explain but, having had to lie the other day . . . it was too difficult for her . . . my cousin . . ." He broke off and indicated the valise. "I must finish that. I suppose they will have taken the saddle off Hirondelle by now?"
Very gently Laurent laid his hand on his shoulder. "Mon ami, you cannot go like this. And you cannot ride Hirondelle, or any other horse, just yet."
Aymar shook his head. "It is of no use, Laurent. I must go. You have galloped Hirondelle. Besides, she does not pull. Perhaps you will fasten this for me? I think I have all I want."
Laurent looked at him, deeply troubled. What was he to do? "You will let me come, too, then, Aymar, will you not? Any horse will serve for me."
"No, I am afraid I cannot let you come."
Impossible to be hurt or offended. The situation was beyond that. "But where are you going?"
Once more Aymar shook his head, and, as Laurent had not moved, knelt down again by the valise. But Laurent lifted it to a chair and strapped it up in silence. As he finished there came the earthquake quiver of the door which testified that Sarrasin had let himself down against it outside.
When he looked round Aymar was standing motionless, gazing at something in his hand.
"It was on the floor. It must have been in the pocket of that coat, which I was wearing the night it broke. . . . And I come on it again now!"
Laurent came to look. It was the lost jartier, symbol now of so much that was lost. Aymar gave a little laugh, and crushing it together threw it across the room towards the fireplace. Laurent had an impulse, soon gone, to protest; but what did it matter now?
"You will at least write to me, to Paris?" he said pleadingly. "Aymar, do consider——"
"Yes, I will write." He had pulled down a cloak. "It is only that I must get away to . . . to think things over. I have written a note to my grandmother. I dare not see her—she would guess."
An idea struck Laurent. He went up to him and put a hand on his shoulder once more. "Aymar, unless you will give me your word of honour that you are not going away to do . . . what you spoke of in the cave . . . I shall accompany you!"
The faintest trace of a smile came. "Dear Laurent! . . . I give you my word."
"May I at least come down the avenue with you?"
"Please. And . . . forgive my leaving you—your last night. I am ashamed . . . but I cannot stay till to-morrow."
Laurent made a gesture. "As if you ever needed to apologize to me!"
When they got to the door of the room he said suddenly, "Has Mme de Morsan left the house?"
"Yes, about an hour ago."
"Thank Heaven! Because—I suppose men have shot women before now!"
Again there was an almost imperceptible flicker of amusement.
"Who do you propose should do it, Laurent—you or I?"
"I, by God! Don't tell me which way she has gone!"
"Long ago," said Aymar de la Rocheterie reflectively, his hand on the door knob, his eyes, wide and dark with pain, fixed on him, "long ago I found, Laurent, that there never was a partisan like you. Nor a friend. Nor one who understood so well. . . . You do understand why I must go alone now?"
"Yes," said Laurent. And he added, with a miserable little laugh, "There is another partisan on the other side of the door who will not, however. You had better take him with you."
"No," answered Aymar, opening the door. Sarrasin was up in a second, his eyes on the cloak over his arm. "Go in and lie down, Sarrasin," said his master. "You cannot come with me."
The great dog gave him a long, melancholy look, licked his hand, and went in like a puzzled but obedient child.
There happened to be nobody in the stable-yard when they got there. Hirondelle was still bridled. Laurent slipped her saddle on again and helped Aymar into it.
He walked down the avenue by him in a dream. Nothing seemed to be true. He had never seen his friend on a horse before, and thought he should never henceforward see him, in memory, anywhere else. Save for his face, he looked so supremely himself there. But how long would he be able to stay in the saddle?
At the gates Aymar spoke at last. "I think, perhaps, that I will go to Eveno for a little. That is instead of taking Sarrasin with me. . . ." He had reined up. "I will not sleep in a ditch, Laurent. I will not throw away all the care—the unspeakable care—you have lavished on this very useless body; and I will write to you—soon. And for this going . . . forgive me again!"
He bent from the saddle and kissed him on either cheek; then Hirondelle carried him between the stone-balled gateposts. The sunlight struck across him; after that he was engulfed in the green gloom of the chestnuts. He did not turn round. Laurent watched him for a little; then he suddenly leant against the post with his arm over his eyes. When he removed it the road was empty.