"To-morrow, then?" I begged. "Will you listen to-morrow, madame?"
But she had grown very white. "You are important here. There is work for you. Be careful of your safety. Please be careful."
I took her hand. "Thank you, madame."
There was much in my tone that I kept out of my words, but she was not conscious of it. She was not thinking of herself, and her eyes, that were on mine, were full of trouble. All the restraint that the last weeks had taught her had come back to her look.
"You wield great power," she repeated. "You are to be the leader of the west. I see that. But oh, be careful! Good-night, monsieur."
CHAPTER XXV
OVER CADILLAC'S TABLE
I found Cadillac writing, writing. Letters were his safety valve. I had only to look at his table to see how much he was perturbed.
And when I sat across from him, with the candles between, I saw that he was also perplexed. That was unusual, for commonly he was off-hand in his judgments, and leaped to conclusions like a pouncing cat. He looked at me through the candle-gloom and shook his head.
"Montlivet, you have lost twenty pounds since I saw you, and aged. Out on you, man! It is not worth it. We live ten years in one in this wilderness. We throw away our youth. Then we go back to France and find ourselves old men, worn out, uncouth, out at elbows, at odds with our generation. It is not worth it. It is not worth it, I say."