"Who is it?" asked Madame de Vigerie. But there was that in her voice which made the question unnecessary.
Armand gave no answer at all, but taking a step or two forward, caught both her hands. Then, with a sob of laughter, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her lips, her hair.... Was she not given back to him from the grave?
In a little they were wandering among the dew-drenched roses. Roses and nightingales after the reddened swamps of Le Chêne—it was like a dream. For he, too, had been through his baptism of fire, and bore the singe of it, to make him for the moment to the woman by his side what he had never been before—stronger than she.
"You are at the shooting-box, then?" she said at last. "It is well provisioned? I gave orders."
"It wants only one thing."
"What is that?"
"You."
"I cannot come there," said Madame de Vigerie. "Not now, I know. I would not ask it. But to-morrow ... in the afternoon, when the sun is getting low, you will come...?"
She did not answer, but he could feel her tremble.
"I am starving, Laurence. If anyone should see you, it is easy to explain. I am a fugitive—you are a conspirator, too."