“What would he do? You are for the master, not the man; for love, not the feeding on; for the Manor House and the hunt, not the cottage and the loom.’
“She broke into tears, her heart thumping in her throat. ‘I am for what the Church did for me this day,’ she said. ‘O sir, I pray you, forgive me and let me go. Do not punish me, but forgive me—and let me go. I was wicked to wear your glove-wicked, wicked.’ ‘But no,’ was his reply, ‘I shall not forgive you so good a deed, and you shall not go. And what the Church did for you this day she shall undo—by all the saints, she shall! You came sailing into my heart this hour past on a strong wind, and you shall not slide out on an ebb-tide. I have you here, as your Seigneur, but I have you here as a man who will—’
“He sat down by her at that point, and whispered softly in her ear; at which she gave a cry which had both gladness and pain. ‘Surely, even that,’ he said, catching her to his breast. ‘And the Baron of Beaugard never broke his word.’ What should be her reply? Does not a woman when she truly loves always believe? That is the great sign. She slid to her knees and dropped her head into the hollow of his arm. ‘I do not understand these things,’ she said, ‘but I know that the other was death, and this is life. And yet I know, too, for my heart says so, that the end—the end, will be death.’
“‘Tut, tut, my flower, my wild-rose!’ he said. ‘Of course the end of all is death, but we will go a-Maying first, come October, and let the world break over us when it must. We are for Maying now, my rose of all the world!’ It was as if he meant more than he said, as if he saw what would come in that October which all New France never forgot, when, as he said, the world broke over them.
“The next morning the Baron called Garoche to him. The man was like some mad buck harried by the hounds, and he gnashed his teeth behind his shut lips. The Baron eyed him curiously, yet kindly, too, as well he might, for when was ever man to hear such a speech as came to Garoche the morning after his marriage? ‘Garoche,’ the Baron said, having waved his men away, ‘as you see, the lady made her choice—and for ever. You and she have said your last farewell in this world—for the wife of the Baron of Beaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the soldier.’ At that Garoche snarled out, ‘The wife of the Baron of Beaugard, that is a lie to shame all hell.’ The Baron wound the lash of a riding-whip round and round his fingers quietly and said: ‘It is no lie, my man, but the truth.’ Garoche eyed him savagely, and growled: ‘The Church made her my wife yesterday; and you—you—you—ah, you who had all—you with your money and place, which could get all easy, you take the one thing I have! You, the grand seigneur, are only a common robber! Ah, Jesu—if you would but fight me!’
“The Baron, very calm, said: ‘First, Garoche, the lady was only your wife by a form which the Church shall set aside—it could never have been a true marriage. Second, it is no stealing to take from you what you did not have. I took what was mine—remember the glove! For the rest—to fight you? No, my churl, you know that’s impossible. You may shoot me from behind a tree or a rock, but swording with you—come, come, a pretty gossip for the Court! Then, why wish a fight? Where would you be, as you stood before me—you!’ The Baron stretched himself up, and smiled down at Garoche. ‘You have your life, man; take it and go—to the farthest corner of New France, and show not your face here again. If I find you ever again in Beaugard I will have you whipped from parish to parish. Here is money for you—good gold coins. Take them, and go.’
“Garoche got still and cold as stone. He said in a low, harsh voice: 'M’sieu’ le Baron, you are a common thief, a wolf, a snake. Such men as you come lower than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall pay all one day. I do not fear you nor your men nor your gallows. You are a jackal, and the woman has a filthy heart—a ditch of shame.’
“The Baron drew up his arm like lightning, and the lash of his whip came singing across Garoche’s pale face. Where it passed, a red welt rose, but the man never stirred. The arm came up again, but a voice’ behind the Baron said: ‘Ah no, no, not again!’ There stood Falise. Both men looked at her. ‘I have heard Garoche,’ she said. ‘He does not judge me right. My heart is no filthy ditch of shame; but it was breaking when I came from the altar with him yesterday. Yet I would have been a true wife to him after all. A ditch of shame—ah, Garoche—Garoche! And you said you loved me, and that nothing could change you!’
“The Baron said to her: ‘Why have you come, Falise? I forbade you.’ ‘Oh, my lord,’ she answered, ‘I feared—for you both! When men go mad because of women a devil enters into them.’ The Baron, taking her by the hand, said: ‘Permit me,’ and he led her to the door for her to pass out. She looked back sadly at Garoche, standing for a minute very still. Then Garoche said: ‘I command you, come with me; you are my wife.’ She did not reply, but shook her head at him. Then he spoke out high and fierce: 'May no child be born to you. May a curse fall on you. May your fields be barren, and your horses and cattle die. May you never see nor hear good things. May the waters leave their courses to drown you, and the hills their bases to bury you, and no hand lay you in decent graves!’
“The woman put her hands to her ears and gave a little cry, and the Baron pushed her gently on, and closed the door after her. Then he turned on Garoche. ‘Have you said all you wish?’ he asked. ‘For, if not, say on, and then go; and go so far you cannot see the sky that covers Beaugard. We are even now—we can cry quits. But that I have a little injured you, you should be done for instantly. But hear me: if I ever see you again, my gallows shall end you straight. Your tongue has been gross before the mistress of this Manor; I will have it torn out if it so much as syllables her name to me or to the world again. She is dead to you. Go, and go for ever!’