How lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with her ardent hair streaming around her shoulders. He bowed very low and kissed her hand; she felt the burning kiss and her heart thrilled with joy and hope.
“You will come back?” she said tenderly.
“Very soon!” he replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes.
“And . . . you will remember? . . .” she asked as her eyes, in response to his look, gave him an infinity of promise.
“I will always remember, Madame, that you have honoured me by commanding my services.”
The words were cold and formal, but they did not chill her this time. Her woman’s heart had read his, beneath the impassive mask his pride still forced him to wear.
He bowed to her again, then begged her leave to depart. She stood on one side whilst he jumped on to Sultan’s back, then, as he galloped out of the gates, she waved him a final “Adieu.”
A bend in the road soon hid him from view; his confidential groom had some difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sultan flew along in response to his master’s excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to her room, for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.
Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and, though it still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious hope soothed it as with a balm.
She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just ridden away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete confidence in his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself for having ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, that was a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and to his love. His passion would have overmastered him, and he would not let her see how much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.