He felt so ashamed of himself that he could not say anything for the moment. Indeed, he felt foolish, standing here beside this village girl with that silly peasant’s head-dress on her head, who, nevertheless, had the power to make him feel mean and ungrateful. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but as he appeared moody and silent, she went on after a while.
“Margaï will have to bake a very large brioche to-morrow as a punishment for having doubted you.”
“Nicolette,” he rejoined dejectedly, “I cannot come to-morrow.”
“Then the next day—why! it will be Sunday, and father’s birthday, we will....”
He shook his head. He dared not meet her eyes, those great hazel eyes of hers, which had golden lights in them just like a topaz. He knew that the expression of joy had gone out of them, and that the tears were beginning to gather. So he just put his hand in his pocket and drew out the letter which the soldier-messenger had brought from Avignon.
“It was all arranged,” he said haltingly, “Micheline and I were coming over to-morrow. I wanted to see your father and—and thank him, and I longed to see you, Nicolette, and dear old Margaï—but a messenger came with this, a couple of hours ago.”
He held out the paper to her, but she did not take it.
“It is very dark,” she said simply. “I could not read it. What does it say?”
“That by order of His Majesty the King, Lieutenant Comte de Ventadour must return to duty at once.”
“Does that mean” she said, “that you must go away?”