“Wait, and I will give you another,” she said with a rather forced gaiety. “I will choose a younger flower this time.”
“No, no,” cried Gaston de Trélan. “I want no other.” And, gently taking off the bright, clinging thing from his breast and closing it in his hand, he stooped and recovered the other three—two from the sand, the fourth from Valentine’s habit, and lifted them to his lips. At the base of each pale golden petal was the faintest stain. Then he put them carefully, almost reverently away in a little leather case, and replaced it inside his uniform.
“You look quite white, my darling!” he exclaimed, catching sight of her face as she rose. “What is the matter?”
But she would not tell him; she only came for the last time in that place into the strong circle of his arms. Her cheek rested where the poppy petal had lain, on the guerdon of valour; against her side she felt the hilt of his sword—a sweet discomfort.
“O Gaston, my heart, my only love! It was worth those years—this hour! Only, with so much happiness upon me, I think I would rather die to-day.”
“Are you afraid?” he asked in a low voice, holding her as if he meant to hold her for ever. “Are you afraid, my saint, my strong saint? I am not. This place that we have come to, after such bitter wanderings, shall hold us always now—be sure of it—in life or death!”
And though the yellow poppy shone and shivered at their feet—the sea-poppy that flowers so late and is so soon scattered—she knew that it was true.
CHAPTER III
THE COST OF ANSWERED PRAYER
So it was Roland, now openly betrothed to Marthe, who came to La Vergne a week later, bringing Gaston’s letter announcing that the die was cast, and it was Roland who told Valentine more fully of the great gathering of Royalist chiefs at La Jonchère, surrounded by almost inaccessible forest, and guarded by more than a thousand peasants. The young man, though not himself admitted to the conferences, had seen some of the leaders, Châtillon and Bourmont and La Prévalaye and Sol de Grisolles, and d’Autichamp the Vendean, and Georges Cadoudal whom he had missed at Hennebont. Their three days of deliberation had resulted in a decision for a general levy of arms in the West. The date fixed was the fifteenth of October. “Not very long to wait, Madame!” said Hermes enthusiastically.