“Home! And I do not even know where that is! Why is it, mademoiselle, that you have told me nothing of yourself? Do you mistrust me?”
“Mistrust you?” she repeated. “What an absurd question! But there is so little to tell.”
“And you refuse to tell me even that? I know nothing of you except your name. How am I to find you again, if fate is indeed kind to me? Where am I to look for you?”
“A perfect lover would have trusted his heart to lead him,” she retorted. “But since you do not, you may as well know that the Château de Chambray is two leagues south of Poitiers.”
“Then,” I said, “I shall not have far to go if—if—pray heaven it may be my fortune to seek you there.”
I could see by her sparkling eyes that the spirit of mischief had sprung to life again.
“We shall be very glad to welcome you, my father and I,” she said, without permitting me to finish. “Perhaps we can even persuade you to bring your betrothed with you. Why not spend your honeymoon at Chambray, monsieur?”
“I should like to spend it there,” I retorted, “but with another woman.”
It was her turn to redden, and she did so in good earnest.
“Do you think fortune will favor me that far?” I persisted.