I lay a moment silent, striving to appear composed. She had gone—she had been brave enough to go; she had sought to spare me the agony of that farewell which must in any event be spoken. She had been wise perhaps. She knew my weakness; but I felt that I would give my whole life to see her again, to hold her hand, to look into her eyes, to hear her say once more, “I love you!”
“She left no word for me?” I asked at last.
“She left a note; but I am not to give it to you until you are ready to set out for Poitiers.”
“For Poitiers?” I repeated, trembling. “Did she herself name Poitiers?”
“Most assuredly. And why do you grow so pale, my friend? Is it not near Poitiers that her home is?”
“Yes, monsieur,” I groaned; “but my journey ends two leagues this side of Chambray. Those two leagues I shall never cover.”
“What nonsense! Take my advice, the advice of a man who knows more than you of women. Do not draw rein at Poitiers. Press on to the end of the journey. You will find a fair prize awaiting you.”
I shook my head—he may have known other women, but not this one.
“Nevertheless I should like to have the note, M. de Marigny,” I said. “It will comfort me somewhat. And besides, I am to start to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” he cried. “A week hence perhaps, if all goes well.”