(2)
A quarter of an hour later La Vireville was sailing over that laughing expanse towards the gem of rose and emerald and flame, whose beauty, though his eyes were set upon it all the while, he hardly marked. The boatman spoke of channels and swift tides, of the Anfroques, the Longue Pierre, the Goubinière, but names of reefs and rocks went by La Vireville unheeded. He was going to put to the test what Anne-Hilarion had shown him. He was liberated at last from his servitude of mind, and he wanted Raymonde—wanted her with all his heart. It was very strange to him now that he had not known this when he was with her more than a year ago.
Du Coudrais had given him the name of the farm which Mme. de Guéfontaine had gone to visit, and once landed he found it easily enough, for there were not many of them on that slender strip of an isle, pillared on its rocks and magic caves. But Raymonde was not there, and they told him that she was out on one of the headlands.
And there, after a space, he found her, among the golden brands of the gorse, looking out to sea in the direction of the coast of France. The wind blew against her; she shaded her eyes with her hand under her little three-cornered hat, as from the lovely land of exile she gazed intently at a dearer shore. She did not see him, nor, from the talk of the wind in her ears, hear his footsteps brushing through the gorse—and Fortuné stopped short, for now that he beheld her again with his bodily eyes he knew that his desire for her was even greater than he had thought, and in proportion the fear swelled in him to conviction that so great a gift could never be meant for him. So he stood there bareheaded in the sunshine, his heart mingled flame and water, aching to see her hidden face, and yet afraid to put his destiny to the touch. But at last, since she was still unconscious of his presence, he was forced to make it known.
"Madame!"
And at that she turned round with a start. Colour swept over her face and was gone again, and in her eyes there was something that was almost fear.
"Monsieur . . . de la Vireville!" she exclaimed, on a sharp catch of the breath.
It was the first time, as he instantly realised, that she had ever called him by his name, that name which was dipped for her in such painful memories.
"Me voici!" said he, and casting his hat on to a gorse bush advanced to kiss her hand.
"I . . . I am not sure . . . that you are not a ghost!" she said, not very steadily, as she surrendered it.