“Perhaps he does. Say this demoiselle was slender and of a reasonable height; that she had brown hair, and grey eyes under dark brows; that her face was of a cold, transparent whiteness; that she spoke with a certain soft huskiness in her voice.”
He cried under his breath, with a note of fright, “The devil is in this man!”
I laughed and took off my hat and made the two a bow.
“To your quick advancement in Bordeaux!” I said.
He stared a moment, seemed to hesitate; then, roughly summoning the girl to follow him, strode off through the wood. The moment they were out of sight I sat down again to ponder.
Was it true, then, that these peasants had met Carinne—that they had helped her to a disguise—for what purpose? She must have been in the woods whilst I was there—accursed destiny that kept us apart! At least I must return to them at once and seek her.
I broke into a queer embarrassed fit of laughter.
What self-ordained mission was this? What was my interest in the girl, or how would she not resent, perhaps, the insolence of my interference? She had no claim upon my protection or I upon her favour.
Very well and very well—but I was going to seek her, nevertheless. Such queer little threads of irresponsible adventure pulled me in these days.
But, at first for my hunger. It was a great voice in an empty house. It would not be refused or put off with a feast of sentiment. Eat I must, if it was only of a hunk of sour pease-bread.