"I do not understand the mystery," he said. "I only see that my nephew is the most fortunate man in France. But I repeat, that he may hear me—honour comes before happiness. Go round to the salon, my friends. I will bring a light and open the door."
"Is it really myself—or am I dreaming?—yes, it must be all a dream!" Hélène murmured, as she sat alone in Monsieur Joseph's salon, beside a flaming wood fire that he had lighted with his own hands.
His first shock once over, the little uncle treated his nephew's wife like a princess. He made her sit in his largest chair, he put a cushion behind her, a footstool under her feet. With gentle hands he lifted the cloak that had slipped from her slight shoulders, advising her to keep it on till the room had grown warm, for she was shivering, though hardly conscious of it. He went himself to fetch wine and cakes, set them on a table beside her, tried unsuccessfully to make her eat and drink. Then he glanced at his watch and turned in his quick way to Angelot, who had been looking on at these attentions with a smile, almost jealous of the little uncle, yet happy that he should thus accept the new situation and take Hélène to his affectionate heart.
"Come with me, Angelot," said Monsieur Joseph. "Excuse us for a few minutes, my dear niece,"—he bowed to Hélène. "Affairs of state"—he smiled, dancing on tiptoe with his most birdlike air.
But as Angelot followed him out of the room, his look became as stern and secret as that of any fierce Chouan among them all.
Hélène waited; the time seemed long; and her situation almost too strange to be realised. Those small hours of the morning, dark and weird, brought their own special chill and shiver, both physical and spiritual; the thought began to trouble her that Angelot's father and mother would be very angry, perhaps—would not receive them, possibly—and that Uncle Joseph, in his lonely house, might be their only refuge; the thought of her own mother's indignation became a thought of terror, now that Angelot's dear presence was not there to send it away; all these ghosts crowded alarmingly upon her solitude, almost driving before them the one great certainty and wonder of the night. She looked round the shadowy, firelit room; she noticed with curious attention the quaint coverings of the furniture, the bright-coloured churches, windmills, farms, peasants at their work, all on a clear white ground, the ancient perse that had been bought and arranged by Angelot's grandmother. She thought it much prettier than anything at Lancilly. It distracted her a little, as the minutes went on; but surely these affairs took a long time to settle; and the wind rose higher, and howled in the chimney and whistled in the shutters, and she saw herself, white and solitary, in a great glass at the end of the room.
When Angelot at last opened the door, she sprang from the chair and ran to meet him; the only safe place was in his arms.
"Don't leave me again," she whispered, as soon as it was possible to speak.
Angelot was very pale, his eyes were burning. With broken words and passionate kisses he put her back into the chair, and kneeling down beside her, struggled for calmness to explain.
He was in honour bound to go; he must ride away; the horse was already saddled, and he had only a few minutes in which to say good-bye. He must leave her in Uncle Joseph's care till he came back. Uncle Joseph said it was his duty to go. That very morning he was to have started for England; his companion would be waiting for him and running a thousand risks; he must meet him at the appointed place and send him on his way alone. He did not tell her that Uncle Joseph, after all his chivalrous kindness to her, had cordially wished women, love affairs, and marriages at the devil, even when perfectly well aware that it was not only Hélène, with her soft hands, who was holding his nephew back and keeping him in Anjou.