“Why cannot you stop at Chambray also, madame?” questioned Charlotte, her face slowly regaining its normal hue. “At least until you find some friend also bound for Italy? You will be quite safe at Chambray.”
M. le Comte nodded.
“She is right, my dear,” he said. “Accept, and thank her. No one will look for you there—besides, it is not for you they are searching, but for me.”
“And where will you be, monsieur?”
“I shall be in the Bocage,” he answered simply, “fighting the enemies of France.”
Madame bit her lips to restrain their trembling, as she cast upon him a glance full of love and pride.
“That is where I would be also,” she said, “if the choice were mine. Madame de la Rochejaquelein accompanies her husband.”
“That is true,” he assented, “and she is sometimes frightfully in the way. If you knew that country, my love, you would see how impossible it is for women. Besides, I am not Rochejaquelein—I am not a leader, but a follower. I must go where I am ordered, and at once, without question. I shall fight better—I shall be worth more—knowing that you are in safety.”
“Very well, monsieur,” she said, her eyes shining. “As you will. You know best.”
He seized her hand and kissed it.