CHAPTER III.
I FALL INTO A PLEASANT BONDAGE.
“Then you are not ill?” my friend was saying, as I dismounted and drew near. “You are not dying? Thank God for that!”
“Ill?” echoed the lady. “Dying? Nonsense! Look at me!”
“You are adorable!” he cried, and kissed the hands he held in his.
“Sad I have been,” she went on, blushing but still gazing fondly up at him. “That was because you were away from me, in danger yonder. Yet I tried to be brave, for I knew that you were serving your country and that you would not forget me.”
“Forget you!” he repeated; and my own heart warmed in sympathy as he gazed down at her, his eyes alight. Ah, here was no match prearranged no marriage of convenience, but a true mating. So true that there could be about it no false pride, no dissimulation or pretense of indifference; so true that it was still the lover talking to his mistress, as well as the husband talking to his wife.
I know it is the custom in certain circles in the great cities to sneer at all this—to seek love anywhere but in the family circle; but we of the provinces are not like that. Do not think it. We live closer to the heart of things—closer to nature, closer to each other, closer to the good God—and I think we are sounder at core.
“But I had a message saying you were ill,” he continued. “You did not send it, then?”
“No; but I bless the sender since it has brought you back to me.”
“And not alone,” he added, remembering my presence. “Permit me to present to you, madame, M. de Tavernay. I began by stealing his horse and ended by gaining his friendship. Be kind to him. Monsieur, this is my wife, Madame la Comtesse de Favras.”