Later on they sat at the base of the sandhills, and spoke of many things—even of M. de Brencourt, so sore a subject to her husband that, till now, Valentine had scarcely dared to mention the Comte’s name. Particularly had this been the case since he had learnt, at the Clos-aux-Grives, of the lie told at Mirabel about his own death. Most of the tale of treachery Valentine had gleaned, not from Gaston at all, but from the Abbé Chassin. Yet it seemed to her a better thing that Gaston should say openly now, as with cold passion he did, “He took my hand after I had gone out with him, and yet went on with the worst treason of all! It is impossible for a man to forgive an act so absolutely base!” than that he should nurse his just resentment in secret and never speak of it. But though through the Comte de Brencourt she had so nearly lost him before ever he was found, though now, realising it afresh, she caught to her breast the arm which the false comrade had pierced, this day and place seemed to spread healing hands even over that madness and treachery. And when she looked at him, holding him thus, the frown went from Gaston’s brow, and adding, “At least, then, I will try to forget,” he gave her a long kiss.
But soon, too soon, it was time to return. The wind was dropping; the gulls which had been soaring high on its strength were now beginning to ride on the little waves, or to stalk along by the edge of the tide. The brief hour was over, the hour that seemed more particularly set between the old life and the new, in this place of wild air and rapture, where the years of pain and surmise were forgotten, and the hazard of the sword and what the future might bring yet unweighed. It was time to go.
And as, very close together, the two went slowly along the dry sand at the bottom of the dunes, they saw at a little distance a small patch of colour there—a pool of faint green, touched with blots of pale, swaying yellow that caught and held the sunlight. They came to it.
“Flowers even here!” exclaimed Valentine.
It was the bride of the waves, the beautiful yellow sea-poppy, that blossoms so late, and is so soon scattered. They both stood and looked down at it, not without wonder, as those who come on a jewel in a dusty place—at the strong, abundant, deeply-cut foliage, silvery green in the sunset, fashioned to defy wind and wave, that had yet given birth to such an ethereal marvel of a flower, whose every petal was a miracle of delicacy, a flower so frail that a breath could put out its cup of light. Already the plant at their feet bore the tokens of the passing of many of its blossoms, in the long curving horns, treasures of next year’s promise, which had succeeded the fallen petals.
Valentine, who had never seen the horned poppy before, knelt down by it. “How wonderful to bloom so late, and in so inclement a place!” she said. “Look how the wind beats on these flowers!”
“And yet they do not fall,” said her husband. “You shall give me one, my dearest heart, for this our second betrothal.”
So she plucked a poppy and held it up to him. It seemed almost to have light in itself, like a fragile golden lamp half enclosed between the open, guarding hands of its leaves. He took it, and bending, kissed the hand that gave it him. Next moment, either because it was caught by a puff of wind, or because its brief life was already over, he held nothing in his hand but the stem with its sturdy foliage, and the pistil set within its fringe of orange-yellow stamens. The four lovely shining petals were blown away. One only rested over his heart, caught there on the cross of white and gold.
Valentine turned pale. What had suggested to her that this wonder was like their love, so late in blossoming, so little favoured in its surroundings, so exquisite . . . and, perhaps, so short-lived?