He had guessed her purpose, for already her hand was raised towards her mask; and so enraged was he that she should thus yield to this stranger whom already he had come to hate, that he forgot himself, lost all self-control, and said just the one word which decided Jacqueline. At the word 'forbid,' she drew herself up to her full height and faced her lover with calm and hauteur.
'There is nothing,' she said coolly, 'that any one here has the right to command or forbid.' Then she turned to Gilles: 'I'll bid you good-night now, Messire, and can but offer to you—a stranger—my humble apologies in mine and my guardian's name for the uncouth behaviour of my countrymen.'
'Jacqueline!' exclaimed de Landas with a hoarse cry of rage.
But even before this final protest had reached her ear, she had extended one hand to Gilles and with the other slowly detached the mask from her face. He had stooped very low in order to kiss her finger-tips; when he straightened out his tall figure once more he was face to face with her.
He never spoke a word or made a sign. He did not look into her eyes at first, though these were as blue as the skies in Southern France; he did not gaze at the delicate mouth with the deep corners and the roguish smile, or at the chiselled, slightly tip-tilted nose with the sensitive nostrils that were quivering with excitement. No! all that Messire Gilles gazed on at the moment was a tiny brown mole which nestled tantalizingly on the velvety cheek, just below the left eye. And for that moment he forgot where he was, forgot the storm of enmity which was raging around him, the unworthy rôle which he had set out to play for the deception of a confiding girl. He lost count of time and of space and found himself once more lying on cool, sweet-smelling straw, with a broken wrist and an aching head, and with a vision as of an angel in white bending over his fevered brow and murmuring in tones of exquisite compassion, 'Think you it will heal?'
And as he gazed on that little mole, that veritable kissing-trap which had tantalized him long ago, his lips murmured vaguely:
'My dream!'
VII
Of course the little interlude had all occurred within a very few seconds: the kiss upon the soft, warm hand, the look upon that roguish face, the swift and sudden rush of memory—it had all happened whilst poor M. de Landas was recovering from the shock of Jacqueline's cold rebuke. Her stern taunt had come down on him like a hammer-blow upon the head; he felt dazed for a moment; speechless, too, with a white rage which was too great at first for words. But that kind of speechless fierceness seldom lasts more than a few seconds. Even as Gilles de Crohin was quietly collecting his scattered senses and Jacqueline, vaguely puzzled, was readjusting her mask in order to be able to gaze on him unobserved, marvelling why he should have murmured 'My dream!' and looked so strangely at her, de Landas had recovered some measure of self-control. The anger which he felt against the stranger was no longer impetuous and ebullient; it had become cold and calculating, doubly dangerous and more certain to abide.
He put up his sword, motioned to his friends to do likewise—which they did, murmuring protestations. They were itching to get at the stranger who had triumphed so signally over them all. But de Landas was waiting with apparent calm whilst Gilles took leave of Jacqueline. This Gilles did with all the ceremony which etiquette demanded. He still felt dazed with the strange discovery which he had just made, the knowledge that the dream which he had only cherished as a vague memory was a living, breathing, exquisite reality. Ye gods! how exquisite she was!