Rare and alien the footsteps came up. One day it would be a traveller, one day a goatherd. The world went by her thinly, and vanished into the mists. She remained alone, and fell, after each interruption, into her old communing with Death. He was the only understanding friend left to her.
One day, as she was in talk with him, high on the hill where no one usually came, a stranger suddenly stood before her. Either the watchdog had been slack or the interloper cunning. He doffed his hat to her with the most sympathetic grace imaginable.
“You seek the auberge, monsieur?” she said haughtily. “It lies below. You are off the road.”
“And mademoiselle also?” he asked. “But supposing we each undertake to put the other on it?”
She had been seated on a stone. She rose hurriedly.
“The road lies down, monsieur.”
“As I would convince mademoiselle,” he said. “I have just come up it from a stricken friend.”
Her intuition touched some meaning in his words. She looked breathlessly at him.
“If you know me, monsieur, as your manner seems to imply, you will know that I am out of love with subterfuge.”
“I know you, mademoiselle, by sight and reputation.”