"I am sorry, Bertrand," the girl said simply. "But I had to wait such a long time at Mother Théot's, and——"
"But what were you doing now?" he queried with an impatient frown. "I saw you from a distance. You came out of yonder house, and then stood here like one bewildered. You did not hear when first I called."
"I have had quite a funny adventure," Régine explained; "and I am very tired. Sit down with me, Bertrand, for a moment I'll tell you all about it."
A flat refusal hovered palpably on his lips.
"It is too late——" he began, and the frown of impatience deepened upon his brow. He tried to protest, but Régine did look very tired. Already, without waiting for his consent, she had turned into the little porch, and Bertrand perforce had to follow her.
The shades of evening now were fast gathering in, and the lengthened shadows stretched out away, right across the street. The last rays of the sinking sun still tinged the roofs and chimney pots opposite with a crimson hue. But here, in the hallowed little trysting-place, the kingdom of night had already established its sway. The darkness lent an air of solitude and of security to this tiny refuge, and Régine drew a happy little sigh as she walked deliberately to its farthermost recess and sat down on the wooden bench in its extreme and darkest angle.
Behind her, the heavy oaken door of the church was closed. The church itself, owing to the contumaciousness of its parish priest, had been desecrated by the ruthless hands of the Terrorists and left derelict, to fall into decay. The stone walls themselves appeared cut off from the world, as if ostracised. But between them Régine felt safe, and when Bertrand Moncrif somewhat reluctantly sat down beside her, she also felt almost happy.
"It is very late," he murmured once more, ungraciously.
She was leaning her head against the wall, looked so pale, with eyes closed and bloodless lips, that the young man's heart was suddenly filled with compunction.
"You are not ill, Régine?" he asked, more gently.