"I wanted to know that she was safe. I will see her in the morning. Keep her until I come."
"Yes, Monsieur."
Madame Destournier had wept herself to sleep, and was breathing in comparative tranquillity. Ralph sat down beside the bed. If Rose had loved Eustache Boullé, the way would have been smooth as a summer sea. Was he sorry, or mysteriously glad? Why should he be glad? he demanded of himself.
Rose made no demur the next morning when M. Destournier told her of the new arrangements, only stipulating that she should have her liberty, to go and come as she pleased.
"Are you very angry because I could not take M. Boullé for a husband?" she inquired timidly.
"Oh, no, no. It was your life, Mademoiselle, for sorrow or joy. You only had the right to choose."
The bronze lashes quivered sensitively upon her cheeks, and a soft flush seemed to tangle itself among them.
"Is it joy, M'sieu?" in a low tone.
"It ought to be."
"Then I shall wait until there comes a touch of joy greater than any I have yet known. And I have had thrills of delight that have gone all through my body, but they faded. The love for a husband should last one's whole life."