Some noise, real or imaginary, startled them. He stirred; but she would not let him go.
“Yet one moment, beloved.”
“Is it she returning?” he said. “Well, let her find us. To die for you, Isabel—what a little thing it sounds beside my love! Just to change this mortal suit for one more meet to await our nuptials in! Yet how sweet the body clings to sweet!”
She struggled to free herself—to push him from her.
“No, go,” she said. “For pity’s sake, Bonbec! O, you kill my heart with fear!”
“One last kiss to comfort it.”
She tore herself from him, and he left her, going gaily through the empty room.
All that night he slept on roses, and all the following day he walked on air, his brain drugged with an exultant ecstasy which bore him far above the world of common thoughts and common apprehensions. Some instinct holding him from presuming too soon on a transcendent favour, he took horse and rode far into the country, returning only to the palace when night was falling. And presently, hardly knowing what to hope or what to fear from it, the summons reached him to attend the ladies in the salle-d’audience.
She was not there when he entered it; only the old marquise, who rose with unwonted condescension and alacrity to greet him.
“Ah, monsieur!” she said; “you are to congratulate us and yourself on the happy termination of your labours.”