“I do not know where she is. What I know, sir, you shall know, for I believe you come in honesty. This morning—some two hours ago—a carriage drove from the town here. Mme. Delhasse was in it, and with her the Duke of Saint-Maclou. I could not refuse to let the woman see her daughter. They spoke together for a time; and then they called me, and Marie—yes, Marie herself—begged me to let her see the duke. So they came here where we stand, and I stood a few yards off. They talked earnestly in low tones. And at last Marie came to me (the others remaining where they were), and took my hand and kissed it, thanking me and bidding me adieu. I was grieved, sir, for I trusted that the girl had found peace here; and she was in the way to make us love her. ‘Does your mother bid you go?’ I asked, ‘And will she save you from all harm?’ And she answered: ‘I go of my own will, Mother; but I go hoping to return.’ ‘You swear that you go of your own will?’ I asked. ‘Yes, of my own will,’ she said firmly; but she was near to weeping as she spoke. Yet what could I do? I could but tell her that our door—God’s door—was never shut. That I told her; and with a heavy heart, being able to do nothing else, I let her go. I pray God no harm come of it. But I thought the man’s face wore a look of triumph.”
“By Heaven,” I cried, “it shall not wear it for long! Which way did they go?”
She pointed to the road by the side of the bay, leading away from Avranches.
“That way. I watched the carriage and its dust till I saw it no more, because of the wood that lies between here and the road. You pursue them, sir?”
“To the world’s end, madame, if I must.”
She sighed and opened her lips to speak, but no words came; and without more, I turned and left her, and set my face to follow the carriage. I was, I think, half-mad with anger and bewilderment, for I did not think that it would be time well spent to ascend to the town and obtain a vehicle or a horse; but I pressed on afoot, weary and in pain as I was, along the hot white road. For now indeed my heart was on fire, and I knew that beside Marie Delhasse everything was nothing. So at first imperceptibly, slowly, and unobserved, but at the last with a swift resistless rush, the power of her beauty and of the soul that I had seemed to see in her won upon me; and that moment, when I thought that she had yielded to her enemy and mine, was the flowering and bloom of my love for her.
Where had they gone? Not to the duke’s house, or I should have met them as I rode down earlier in the morning. Then where? France was wide, and the world wider: my steps were slow. Where lay the use of the chase? In the middle of the road, when I had gone perhaps a mile, I stopped dead. I was beaten and sick at heart, and I searched for a nook of shade by the wayside, and flung myself on the ground; and the ache of my arm was the least of my pain.
As I lay there, my eye caught sight of a cloud of dust on the road. For a moment I scanned it eagerly, and then fell back with a curse of disappointment. It was caused by a man on a horse—and the man was not the duke. But in an instant I was sitting up again—for as the rider drew nearer, trotting briskly along, his form and air was familiar to me; and when he came opposite to me, I sprang up and ran out to meet him, crying out to him:
“Gustave! Gustave!”
It was Gustave de Berensac, my friend. He reined in his horse and greeted me—and he greeted me without surprise, but not without apparent displeasure.