And when the door was closed upon his guest he turned back into his little room, this thought going on with him:
"A great gentleman—though my Dame d'Héronac will be happier with the fierce one. Youth must have its day, and all is well."
But Henry, striding in the dark with the sound of the rushing sea for company, found no consolation.
When he got back to the château and was going up the chief staircase to his room, he met Moravia coming down. She had just left Sabine and knew the outlines of what had happened. Her astonishment and distress had been great, but underneath, as she was only human, there was some sense of personal upliftment; she could try to comfort the disconsolate lover at least. Sabine had given her to understand that nothing was finally settled between herself and Henry, but Moravia felt there could be only one end; she knew he was too unselfish to hold Sabine for an instant, once he understood that she would rather be free; so it was in the character of fond friend that she put out her hand and grasped his in silent sympathy.
"Henry," she whispered with tears in her usually merry eyes, "my heart is breaking for you. Can I do anything?"
He would rather that she had not spoken of his sorrow at all, being a singularly reticent person, but he was touched by the love and solicitude in her face, and took and held her white fingers.
"You are always so good to me. But there is nothing to be done."
She slid her other hand into his arm and drew him on into the little sitting-room which was always set apart for her, close to her room.
"I am going to take care of you for the next hour, anyway—you look frozen," she told him. "I shall make you sit in the big chair by the fire while I give you something to drink. It is only half-past six."
Then with fond severity she pushed him into a comfortable bergère, and, leaving him, gave an order to her maid in the next room to bring some brandy. But before it came Moravia went back again, and drawing a low stool sat down almost at Henry's feet.