Our arrangements were all completed, our passports procured, a courier engaged, and everything in readiness for the road. We were to set out on the following day. It was a Friday, and Margot's prejudices would not permit her to begin a journey on such an inauspicious day. I reasoned with her and argued earnestly, for I remembered it was on that night Mademoiselle Leonie was to appear at the Français. She was resolved, however, to have her way, and I gave in. No allusion to the theatre, nor to anything concerning it, had ever escaped either of us. By as it were a tacit understanding, each avoided the theme as one only suggestive of distressing memories; and then we had so many topics that were delightful to talk over.
I went out early in the morning to make some purchases, some trifling things we wanted for the road, and on my return I found Margot with flushed face and feverish look rapidly walking to and fro in the drawing-room. She tried to seem calm and composed as I entered, she even made jest of her own agitation, and tried to laugh it off as a weakness she was ashamed of; but her efforts were sad failures: her quivering lip and trembling accents showed that deep agitation was at work within her.
“I cannot tell you, I will not tell you, what is the matter with me,” said she, at last; “it would but lead to some rash outbreak of your temper,—the very last thing I could endure at such a time. No, no; let us go; let us leave Paris at once,—to-day, now, if you wish it; I am ready.”
This was impossible; all our arrangements had been made, and horses ordered for the next day. My curiosity now became an agony, and I grew almost angry at her continued refusal to satisfy me; when at last, after exacting from me a solemn oath to do nothing nor to take any step without her concurrence, she placed in my hands a letter, saying, “This came while you were out.”
It ran to this effect:—
“The Vicomte Dechaine begs to offer to Mademoiselle De La Veronie [Margot's name in the theatre] his box at the Français for this evening, as it must doubtless be interesting to her to witness the performance of Roxalane by one who labors under the double difficulty of her beauty and her reason. An answer will be called for.”
“You cannot expect me to endure this outrage, Margot!” cried I, trembling with passion; “you could not suppose that I can live under it?”
“I have your oath, sir,” said she, solemnly, and with a dignity that at once recalled me to myself.
“But if I am to drag out life dishonored and degraded even to my own heart, Margot,” said I, imploringly, “you surely would take pity on me!”
“And who would pity me, sir, were I to make you a murderer? No, no!” cried she, “you would have this secret,—you insisted on it; show yourself worthy of this confidence, by keeping your solemn pledge. We leave this to-morrow; a few hours is not too much sacrifice for one who will give her whole life to you after.”