“You must wait while I run back.”
“He will shoot you after all,” grinned Jean.
“The devil take him!” said I, picturing the poor duchess utterly forsaken—at the mercy of Delhasses, husband, and what not.
I declare, as my deliberate opinion, that there is nothing more dangerous than for a man almost to forget a lady who has shown him favor. If he can quite forget her—and will be so unromantic—why, let him, and perhaps small harm done. But almost—That leaves him at the mercy of every generous self-reproach. He is ready to do anything to prove that she was every second in his memory.
I began to retrace my steps toward the château.
“I shall get the sack over this!” called Jean.
“You shall come to no harm by that, if you do,” I assured him.
But hardly had I—my virtuous pride now completely smothered by my tender remorse—started on my ill-considered return journey, when, just as had happened to Gustave de Berensac and myself the evening before, a slim figure ran down from the bank by the roadside. It was the duchess. The short cut had served her. She was hardly out of breath this time; and she appeared composed and in good spirits.
“I thought for a moment you’d forgotten me, but I knew you wouldn’t do that, Mr. Aycon.”
Could I resist such trust?