“If the woodcock is as good as the canvasback,” was her somewhat irrelevant reply, “I shall call the evening a success, after all.”
But Helena scarcely more than tasted her bird, and pushed back after a time the broiled mushroom which Jean offered her gently.
“Does not your appetite remain?” I inquired. “Come, you must not break Jean’s heart doubly.”
She only pushed back her chair. “I am sorry,” said she, “but I want to go back to the boat.”
“Back to the boat! You astonish me. I thought escape from the Belle Helène was the one wish of your heart these days.”
“And so it is.”
“Then, Helena, why not escape here and now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not mean for you to break your parole—I know you too well for that. But give me additional parole, my dear girl. Give me your word. Say that one word. Then we can rise here and announce to Mr. Davidson and all the world and its newspapers that no crime has been done and only a honeymoon has been begun. Come, Helena, all the world loves a lover. All New Orleans will love us if you will raise your finger and say the word.”
I looked toward her. Her head was bent and tears were dropping from her eyes, tears faithfully concealed by her kerchief. But she said no word to me, and at her silence my own heart sank—sank until my courage was quite gone, until I felt the return of a cold brutality. Still I endeavored to be gentle with one who deserved naught of gentleness.