Without replying, she drew aside the curtain and stepped through the window upon a gravelled walk. I followed her with pulse throbbing strangely. Madame had consented then—I had scarcely dared hope it. But the whole adventure had about it something so strange, so unusual, that I had long since ceased to wonder at it, or to try to understand it. That madame should consent, almost as if we were betrothed, as if all this were a family arrangement—and then my heart grew chill at thought of the task that lay before me. For I knew that this was the last time that I should ever walk in this garden, or in any garden, with this sweet woman at my side.
The yellow moon was just peeping over the tree-tops to the east, and a soft breeze stirred the leaves upon the branches. Somewhere in the distance a thrush was calling to its mate. The night seemed made for love.
Still without speaking she led the way along the path, past the old tower, to a seat of marble gleaming white amid a setting of evergreens.
“Now I am ready to hear you, monsieur,” she said, and sank into one corner of the seat.
I took a turn up and down the path to compose myself somewhat, to quiet the painful throbbing of my heart. How I longed to sit there beside her—to whisper in her ear, to tell her——
“Mademoiselle,” I began finally, pausing before her, “believe me, it is not an easy task which I have set myself, nor one which I would choose to face could it be shirked with honor. But since I must face it—since there is no other way—I shall try to do so with such courage as I possess.”
“A most disconcerting preamble,” she commented. “I tremble at what will follow. If it is so formidable perhaps, after all, you would better take M. le Comte for your confidant.”
“M. le Comte has no concern in it.”
“And I have?” she asked, looking at me quickly with a little shrinking of alarm.
“Indirectly—yes.”