“Oh, do not go,” I protested, and retained her hand in mine. “Think—we may never again be alone together—certainly never like this, in an enchanted garden, with the moon looking down upon us, full of counsel and encouragement.”
“The moon has never been noted for the wisdom of its counsel,” she retorted; “and as for encouragement, you certainly need none.”
“But give me a little longer,” I pleaded, trembling at the thought of parting from her. “Sit here beside me and let me look at you. Ah, I already know every feature, every curl of the hair. It is not at that I wish to look, but at the soul in your eyes. I know you do not love me, and yet it seems to me that your soul and mine were destined for each other. I cannot really believe that we are to be kept apart. I hear within myself a voice which says that there can be no happiness for me apart from you. I ask for nothing more than to sit on here forever with you beside me, your hand in mine.”
She leaned away from me into the corner of the seat, and I fancied she shivered slightly.
“You are cold,” I said remorsefully. “I have been thoughtless. The air is chilly and a mist is rising from the river. May I get my cloak for you?”
“No, M. de Tavernay,” she answered, rising to her feet somewhat unsteadily. “I must really leave you. Remember, we are to start for Poitiers in the morning, and I have many things to do.”
It would have been selfish to protest, heartless to expose her longer to the dampness of the night.
“At least,” I said, “I shall ride by the window of the coach to-morrow, where I can still see you.”
“Yes,” she laughed, “and I think I can promise that madame will even permit you to speak to me, if you are very good. Come.”
I walked beside her along the gravelled path, drinking in her beauty, exulting in my passion, pressing to my heart the cross which tore me. Past the tower we went, past the hedge which framed the garden. I paused for a last look back at it—ah, I had spent a happy hour there!